ADVERTISEMENT. 


Mr.  W.  A.  Croffut's  Writings. 


The  Military  and  Civil  History  of  Connecticut 
during  the  Rebellion. 

By  "W.  A.  Croffut  in  Collaboration  with  John  M.  Morris ; 
891  pp.;  Plates  Iviii.  Price,  $5.00.  Ledyard  Bill, 
New  York,  publisher ;  1869. 


"  This  is  an  admirable  record  of  the  career  of  our  soldiers  for  four  years 
through  march  and  hospital,  camp  and  battle,  for  which  the  thanks  of  the  State 
are  due  you."—  Gov.  Buckingham. 

"  Connecticut  will  be  proud  of  this  book  and  Us  exhibit."— Hartford  Courant. 


44  An  amazing  claim  is  here  made  for  Connecticut  and  apparently  well  sup- 
ported. The  preface  says:  4Not  only  Winthrop,  Ellsworth,  Lyon,  Foote,  Sedg- 
wick,  Mansfield,  Wadsworth,  McClellau,  Mower,  Wright,  Terry,  Hawley,  but 
William  Tecumaeh  Sherman  and  Ulysses  S.  Grant,  sprang  straight  from  the 
loins  of  our  sturdy  little  commonwealth.'  "—New  Haven  Palladium. 


*  plain,  comprehensive  and  compact.  While  entering  into  many 
details  of  the  co-operation  of  the  common  people,  it  is  at  once  heroic  and  pa- 
thetic. *  *  *  As  any  book  dealing  with  the  State's  recent  history  must,  it 
leaves  brave  Joe  Hawley  way  up  on  the  front  seat." — Norwich  Bulletin. 


44  What  business  has  the  Connecticut  Legislature  to  rob  the  people  of  the  State 
by  subscribing  for  two  thousand  copies  of  such  a  book  as  this?"— Bridgeport 
Farmer 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Mr.  W.  A.  Croffut's  Writings. 


A  Helping  Hand  for  American  Homes. 

By  W.  A.  Ooffut  in  Collaboration  with  Dr.  Lyman  C. 
Draper,  Secretary  of  the  Wisconsin  Historical 
Society;  Introduction  (7  pages)  by  Horace  Greeley ; 
821  pages;  117  illus.  Price,  $4.00.  Charles  F. 
Wilstach  &  Co.,  Cincinnati,  publishers ;  1870. 


Invaluable  in  garden  and  kitchen." — American  Farmer. 


"  A  mammoth  compendium  of  the  wisest  and  most  valuable  suggestions  for 
the  care  of  farm  and  home."— Rural  New  Yorker. 


"  Greeley  comes  to  the  front  again  with  a  lecture  to  oiir  farmers  and  husband- 
men on  certain  points,  expressed  in  his  sledge-hammer  earnestness.  It  ia  illus- 
trated from  his  own  practical  experience  at  Chapauqua."— Prairie  Farmer. 


"  It  can  not  be  said  that  this  bulky  volume  adds  anything  to  the  sum  total  of 
human  knowledge,  for  neither  Croffut  nor  Draper  is  a  doctor,  or  a  carpenter,  or 
a  floriculturist,  or  a  husbandman,  or  even  a  cook  as  far  as  heard  from,  but  this 
is  a  useful  compilation  in  convenient  form  of  twenty-five  thousand  important 
bits  of  human  experience  concerning  these  things,  and  Horace  Greeley  compli- 
ments the  compilers  by  introducing  their  book  to  the  public  through  several 
characteristic  pages."— Mihoaukee  Sentinel. 


ADVERTISEMENT 


Mr.  W.  A.  Croffut's  Writings. 


Bourbon  Ballads. 

Humorous  political  songs,  one  hundred  in  number, 
written  by  W.  A.  Croffut  for  the  New  York  Tribune  ; 
1879.  Second  Ed.,  10  cents. 


"There  is  a  person  connected  with  tha  skiff  of  the  N.  Y.  Tribune  who  is 
employed  to  blackguard  everybody  who  differs  from  him,  iu  infamously 
wretched  doggerel." — A".  0.  Times. 


"These  'Bourbon  Ballads,' which  for  months  have  appeared  at  frequent  in- 
tervals in  the  New  York  Tribune,  have  now  been  collected  and  published  in  a 
large  edition.  They  arp,  without  doubt,  the  most  telling  political  thrusts  that 
have  ever  appeared  in  English  rhyme."— Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 


"  This  dreadful  drivel  is  enough  to  make  a  horse  sick  and  is  mining  the 
Tribune's  ancient  reputation  for  good  grammar  and  decency." — Cincinnati  En- 
quirer. 

"  Whitelaw  Eeid  !  Haul  off  your  hireling  slanderer !  " — Chicago  Record. 


"  Mr.  Whitelaw  Reid,  the  comic  part  of  the  Tribune,  has  ceased'  to  write  any 
more  of  those  fine,  soul-stirring  ballads  which  made  his  papor  so  popular  with 
all  Bourbons,  and  the  Bourbon  Secretary  of  the  Senate  has  been  compelled  to 
discontinue  it." — J)onn  Piatt. 

"  Croff nt's  ballads  are  moro  copied  than  anything  that  ever  emanated  from  the 
combined  pens  of  his  maliguers."— Xorristown  Herald. 


•'  Even  the  satirized  subjects  of  the 4  Bourbon  Ballads '  have  1  aughed  over  them. ' 
—  Washington  Star. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Mr.  W.  A.  Croffut's  Writings. 


Deseret;    or  a  Saint's  Afflictions;    An  Opera. 

Libretto  by  W.  A.  Croffut ;  music  by  Dudley  Buck.  This 
comic  opera  on  Mormonism  was  first  produced  with 
a  chorus  of  seventy  singers,  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  in 
October,  1880. 


"Deseret,  anew  comic  opera,  wai  performed  last  evening  at  Haverly's  before 
a  large  audience,  and  was  received  with  considerable  favor.  By  reason  of  its 
pretty  music  and  amusing  story  it  is  merry  and  entertaining,  and  last  night  it 
was  much  applauded  aod  frequently  interrupted  with  genuine  and  hearty 
laughter.  Messrs.  Buck  and  Croffut  were  called  before  the  curtain  almost 
prematurely,  garlanded  with  flowers  and  *  speech ! '  '  speech ! '  vainly  demanded 
of  them."— .V.  F.  Herald,  Oct.  14, 1880. 

'*  Mr.  W.  A.  Croffut,  whose  brilliant  '  Graphicalities '  gave  the  Graphic  great 
popularity  and  who  has  more  recently  made  a  national  reputation  through  his 
clever  *  Bourbon  Ballads '  in  the  Tribune^  has  filled  with  happy  conceits  the 
libretto  of  '  Deseret,'  now  at  the  Brooklyn." — Home  Journal. 

"  Thanks   to  Mr.  Croffut's  bright  and  original  libretto,  and    Mr.   Dudley 
Buck's  strong  and  scholarly  music,  the  opera  could  not  be  killed  with  kindness, 
and  it  ended,  at  a  late  hour,  with  something  very  like  a  genuine  success.     * 
There  are  fortunes  in  it  for  all  concerned.    All  through  the  country  it  will  draw 
crowded  houses  and  be  warmly  praised."— Spirit  of  the  Times. 


"  Deseret  survived  the  amateurs  on  the  stage  and  the  amateurs  in  front  of  the 
house,  and  it  will  make  its  mark  and  lead  to  a  successful  rivalry  of  Sullivan  and 
Gilbert,  if  not  of  Offenbach,  Herve  and  Lecocq."— .V.  F.  Daily  Times. 


"  Deseret  goes  back,  rather,  toward  the  genuine  comic  opera  of  older  times, 
and  is  after  the  French  more  than  the  modern  English  school."— jV.  F.  Tribune. 

"  The  Mormon  opera,  Deseret,  has  captured  success,  and  since  leaving  this 
city  has  been  given  in  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Washington,  Cincinnati,  St. 
Louis  and  Chicago  and  is  now  in  its  eighth  week."— A'.  F.  World. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


Mr.  W.  A.  Croffut's  Writings. 


A  Midsummer  Lark. 

A  book  of  travels  in  verse ;  by  W.  A.  Croffut.  New 
York;  Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  1883.  16mo.,  pp.  xii, 
256.  Price,  $1.25.  (Leisure  Hour  Series,  No.  150.) 


44  Both  the  matter  and  the  form  of  his  book  arc  well  calculated  to  attract  at- 
tention and  to  afford  amusement.  The  whole  of  it,  from  dedication  to  finis, 
is  cast  in  rhyme,  and  it  is  altogether  such  a  jolly,  rollickiug  sort  of  a  'lark' 
that  the  worst  tempered  man  in  the  world  could  not  help  laughing  over  it.  It  is 
genuinely  and  spontaneously  bright  and  witty."— St.  Paul  Pioneer  Press. 

"Old  routes  take  on  new  charms  under  Mr.  Croffut's  lively  handling."— 
Buffalo  Courier. 

'•This  is  a  whimsical  humorous  story  of  the  haps  and  mishaps  of  u  parly  of 
merry  travelers.  The  whole  thing  is  a  literary  joke,  strongly  marked  with  the 
characteristics  of  the  author,  who  is  one  of  the  wittiest  and  most  facile  writers 
connected  with  American  journalism."— Minneapolis  Tribune. 

44  One  of  the  very  jolliest  books  of  the  season,  the  best  to  take  into  (h  •  country, 
to  real  aloud  to  those  who  are  sick,  and  those  who  are  blue,  and  with  much 
sense,  wisdom  and  pathos  beneath  its  wit  and  humor.';— Demorest's  Monthly. 

44  The  most  depressing  of  printed  books." — Detroit  Free  Presn. 
44  Croffut  has  made  a  hit  with  this  volume."— N.  Y.  World. 


44  The  book  is  unique — a  fantastic  conceit  in  rhyme.  Even  the  preface,  the 
running  title  and  the  foot-notes  rhyme." — Indianapolis  Journal. 

44  Beginning  the  closely  printed  pages  that  have  all  the  appearance  of  prose 
pure  and  simple,  the  reader  is  surprised  at  the  ringing  measure  and  the  rhythmic 
form  straightway  encountered,  aud  as  with  mingled  wit  and  eas^  and  grace  the 
recital  glides  and  flows  smoothly  on  through  chapter  after  chapter,  never  be- 
coming tedious,  its  unique  style  rather  growing  richer,  its  interest  waxing  fuller* 
surprise  changes  to  amaze  at  the  rare  and  peculiar  ability  the  work  displays. 
It  is  of  its  kind  inimitable  and  beyond  improvement."—^.  O.  Times-Democrat. 


"  This  Midsummer  Lark  really  carols  in  musical  strain.  The  book  is  a  poem 
of  many  metres.  Not  satisfied  with  writing  poetical  prose,  the  author  has  given 
us  prose  (but  far  from  prosy)  poetry.  At  first  the  incongruity  of  vehicle  and 
sentiment  jars  tipon  the  reader.  It  is  too  like  a  farce  to  quite  satisfy  a  refined 
taste.  But,  as  tlu>  rhythmical  lines  flow  on  from  page  to  page  and  as  one  notes 
tho  vividness  of  the  scenes  portrayed  and  marks  the  esprit  of  the  whole  the 
shocked  conventional  judgment  insensibly  merges  into  an  amused  toleration 
and  this  in  turn  becomes  undisguised  and  genial  approval.  Many  of  the  descrip- 
tions are  fine  poetry ;  but  the  comments  upon  the  '  old  masters '  and  such  points 
as  the  Tarpeiau  Rock  and  Appiau  Way  are  marked  by  the  same  shrew.l,  possibly 
rudt1,  mother  wit  as  that  famous  volume  of  Mark  Twain  which  first  shook  the 
autocracy  of  antiquity.  We  cau  conceive  of  no  book,  admittedly  written  to 
amuse  its  readers,  which  can  be  found  to  yield  more  entertainment  in  propor- 
tion to  its  information." — Chicago  Tribune. 


"  A.  Midsummer  Lark  is  the  most  daring  literary  adventure  that  has  been  at- 
tempted for  years.  There  never  was  anything  like  it  published  before.  No  one 
but  the  man  whose  name  lies  on  the  title  page  would  have  conceived  such  an 
idea,  and  his  most  ardent  admirer  and  steadfast  friend  could  not  have  expected 
it  to  bo  carried  fully  out  Mr.  Croffut  has  long  been  recognized  as  a  geimis  by 
those  who  are  familiar  with  his  versatility,  his  wonde-  ful  power  of  imagination 
and  his  infinite  humor;  he  is  an  audacious  and  remorseless  punster,  and  has  a  wit 
that  brings  a  spark  whenever  it  strikes  friend  or  foe.  He  is  always  doing  some- 
thing or  writing  something— the  busiest  man  in  New  York."— Chicago  Inter- 
Ocean. 


"  Somebody  has  said, '  When  you  see  a  humorist,  kill  him  on  the  spot— with 
kindness.'  Nobody  can  help  having  a  kindly  feeling  for  the  man  who  puts 
everybody  in  good  humor  and  provokes  laughter  in  all  sorts  of  unexpected  ways. 
A  genuine  humorist  is  a  walking  and  talking  sunbeam,  radiating  cheerfulness 
wherever  he  goes.  And  if  he  doos  not  produce  explosions  of  merriment,  he  fills 
the  mind  with  that  pleasurable  content  which  balms  all  wounds  and  makes  one 
oblivious  of  everything  but  present  enjoyment.  Since  Mark  Twain's  '  Innocents 
Abroad  '  we  have  had  no  such  delightful,  fun-provoking  book  about  Europe  as 
Croffut's  'Midsummer  Lark.'-'— N.  Y.  Sun. 


'•  This  unique  narrative  of  a  lark  with  congenial  companions  through  Scot- 
laud,  England,  and  over  the  continent,  forms  one  of  the  popular  Leisure  Hour 
series,  and  is  as  bright  and  sparkling  and  fresh  as  though  no  line  had  ever  been 
read  about  foreign  travels." — Boston  Herafd. 


"  Croffut's  humor  is  lighter  and  daintier  than  Mark  Twain's,  but  it  is  quite  as 
genuine  and  does  not  tire  so  soon.  And  the  oldest  inhabitant  will  si vor  that  he 
never  saw  Europe  done  up  in  such  a  style  before." — ^V.  Y.  Star. 

"  Of  all  the  trash  that  was  ever  written,  this  takes  the  cake."— Rochester 
Democrat. 

"  So  far  as  we  remember,  nothing  of  the  kind  has  ever  been  done  before  except 
by  Moore,  who  in  his  k  Rhymes  on  the  Road '  attempted  to  leave  in  poetic  form 
the  reminiscences  of  a  poet's  journey." — Buffalo  Courier. 


ADVERTISEMENT 


Mr.  W.  A.  Croffut's  Writings. 


The  Vanderbilts  and  the  Story  of  their  Fortune. 

By  W.  A.  Croffut;  New  York  and  Chicago;  Belford, 
Clarke  &  Co.,  1886.  16mo.,  pp.  xii,  310;  Illus- 
trated. Price,  $1.50.  Third  edition,  1894. 


"  This  volume  is  an  interesting,  timely  anil  suggestive  history  of  tho  Vandcr- 
bilt  family,  of  their  lives  and  efforts,  and  is  as  entertaining  as  any  novel.  But 
the  chief  element  of  value  in  the  work  just  now  is  the  plainness  with  which  it  is 
made  to  appear  that  the  Vanderbilts  have  been  tho  accumulators  of  wealth, 
which,  while  it  has  enriched  them,  has  at  the  same  time  been  of  far  greater  bene- 
fit to  the  community  as  a  whole."— Chicago  Times. 


"  This  work  reads  almost  like  a  fairy  tale,  giving,  as  it  does,  an  accurate 
history,  drawn  from  authoritative  sources,  of  the  methods  by  which  the  great 
Vauderbilt  fortune  has  been  built  up." — Harper's 


"  If  this  book  could  b3  placed  in  every  family  it  would  exterminate  socialism 
in  America. "-N.  Y.  Tribune. 


"It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  personal  career  of  such  an  aggressive,  ava- 
ricious and  remorseless  '  Captain  of  Industry'  as  the  old  Coinmodoro  makes  inter- 
esting reading,  but 4  The  Vanderbilts  '  is  a  book  to  keep  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
growing  youth  of  this  land  who  need  an  exemplar.  The  fewer  Napoleons  and 
Corneliuses  the  world  has  the  better  off  for  all  men.  It  would  shock  even 
Carlyle." — Albany  Argus. 

"  This  is  a  book  to  place  in  the  possession  of  American  boys.  It  ought  to  be  in 
every  Sunday  school  as  a  stimulant  to  upright  ambition."— Brooklyn  Times. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

Mr.  W.  A.  Croffut's  Writings. 

(In  Press.) 

Folks  Next  Door. 

Albany;  Century  Press  Co.,  1894;    8vo,  pp.  224;   100 
illustrations.      Price,  50  cents. 

Silhouettes  of  travel-scenes  in  Labrador,  Nova  Scotia, 
the  Bermudas,  Cuba,  Mexico,  and  Yucatan. 

(In  Preparation. ) 

Labor's  Riddle  Guessed  At. 

A  consideration  of  the  Relations  of  the  Capitalist,  the 
Inventor,  and  the  Workingman,  and  of  their  respective 
Shares  in  Production  and  Distribution. 

(In  Preparation.) 

The  Open  Gate  of  Dreamland. 

A  complete  Hand-book  of  Hypnotism,  describing  mes- 
meric sleep  in  its  different  phases  from  lucidity  to 
catalepsy,  with  definite  instructions  how  to  induce 
hypnosis. 

"Just  after  receiving  the  degree  of  Ph.  D.  from  Union  College,  Dr.  W.  A. 
Croffut  was  blackballed  by  the  Cosmos  Club  of  Washington,  on  the  ground  that 
he  practised  hypnotism !  We  are  now  prepared  to  hear  that  it  has  expelled 
somebody  for  practising  astronomy." — Providence  Journal. 

(In  Preparation.) 

Under  Twelve  Administrations. 

A  free-hand  Chronicle  of  Life,  Manners  and  Methods 

in  the  Capital  of  the  Kepublic,  from  Buchanan  to . 

In  two  volumes,  royal  octavo.  (To  appear  about  1898.) 

This  work  will  be  a  narrative  combining  a  historical 
outline  with  much  incident  and  anecdote  about  public 
men  and  measures — a  sort  of  life  -mask  of  the  city  of 
Washington  in  the  last  half  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 


THE   PROPHECY 


©tber  poems 


BY 

W.   A.   CROFFUT 

AUTHOR  OF 
"A  MIDSUMMER  LARK,"  "THE  VANDERBILTS,"   "FOLKS  NEXT  DOOR," 


"DESERET,'^  E'TC. 


NEW  YORK 
LOVELL  BROTHERS  COMPANY 

32  AND  34  LAFAYETTE  PLACE 


TO  HER 

WHO  IS  TO  ME 

WIFE,  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER, 

1[  Dedicate  this  booh 


PEEFAOE. 


With  the  exception  of-  the  first,  the  poems  in  this 
book  are  printed  in  somewhat  the  chronological  order  oJ 
fcheir  production.  No  attempt  has  been  made  to  segre- 
gate the  serious  from  the  humorous,  or  the  occasion 
poems  from  the  poems  of  legend  or  of  locality,  except 
in  the  ample  classification  of  the  table  of  contents.  If 
this  lack  of  arrangement  gives  to  the  volume  the  char- 
acter of  a  melange  of  grave  and  gay,  it  can  not  seem 
more  heterogeneous  or  incongruous  than  were  the  events 
and  moods  in  which  it  had  its  origin. 

With  three  or  four  exceptions,  these  poems  have  all 
found  place  in  various  periodicals,  and  I  am  under  obli- 
gations to  the  publishers  of  the  Century,  Puck,  Harper's 
Weekly,  the  New  York  Graphic,  Tribune,  World  and 
Sun,  the  Home  Journal  and  the  Washington  Post,  for 
permission  to  assemble  the  waifs  together  within  these 
covers. 

I  have  rescued  from  the  somewhat  obscure  prose- 
forms  of  "  A  Midsummer  Lark  "  six  of  the  poems 
hidden  thereunder  and,  after  revision,  have  introduced 
them  here.  The  strong  temptation  to  include  more  of 
them,  and  also  to  reprint  some  of  the  songs  from 


PREFACE. 


"Deseret"  which  the  eminent  composer,  Mr.  Dudley 
Buck,  set  to  lively  and  stirring  music,  has  been  success- 
fully resisted. 

The  fortuitous  nature  of  this  collection,  and  especially 
the  transiency  of  some  of  the  events  and  the  obscurity 
of  some  of  the  places  referred  to,  have  made  it  appar- 
ently desirable  to  introduce  at  the  close  of  the  book  a 
few  pages  of  notes  to  explain  what  might  otherwise  be 
unfamiliar  or  unintelligible. 


PROLOGUE. 


"  I  can  not  rest  me  till  they  come !  "  he  cried, 
And  from  the  hut  his  shepherd's  ree.l  he  blew. 
The  honeyed  note  in  sweet  cajolery  flew 

O'er  desert  sands  and  up  the  mountain  wide ; 

And  as  in  dells  its  fainting  echo  died, 

The  grazing  flocks  Arcadian  heard  and  knew 
The  loving  call,  and,  moist  with  evening  dew, 

The  motley  creatures  hastened  to  his  side. 

"  O,  flocks  uncouth !  "  a  wandering  traveler  thought, 

"Ill-bred,  ill-chosen—"     "  Ah !  how  fair  they  be  !  " 
The  rustic  spake,  "  what  pleasure  have  they  brought ! 

I  could  not  rest  till  they  had  come  to  me, 

For  with  them  I  have  lived  and  laughed  and  wept." 
And  then  the  happy  swain  lay  calmly  down  and  slept. 


CONTENTS. 


OCCASIONS.  PAGE. 

The  Prophecy 1 

"Going  to  Thanksgiving" 12 

Resurgam,  Chicago ;  1872 13 

A  New  Year  Summary 0 

Only  Yesterday 43 

Thanksgiving 56 

Received  by  his  Prototype— 1893 66 

Thelsere. 74 

Christmas  Day  (song) 76 

Christmas  Morning 85 

Charles  Darwin,  D.  C.  L f 87 

Brother  Jonathan  to  Dom  Pedro 88 

Uncle  Sam  to  Prince  Fushimi  of  Japan 93 

Thanksgiving 96 

A  Hero  of  Bennington 100 

The  President's  Au  revoir 103 

The  Soldier's  Daughter 104 

May  Day 108 

The  King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands 110 

The  Day  we  Celebrate 117 

A  Vision— 1892 ~ ~- 121 

In  1864...  ...143 


PLACES. 

The  Saguenay 7 

The  Thousand  Islands 9 

The  Bay  of  Fundy's  Tides 24 

The  Haunted  Lake  at  Coopcrstown 51 

The  Story  of  Cape  Despair 57 

Mount  Hope,  Karragansett  Bay 63 

Lover's  Leap 70 

Off  Vera  Cruz  (a  ballade) 99 

The  Rhine 139 

Pisa  to  Genoa 142 

SONNETS. 

U.S.  Grant 35 

John  0.  Fremont 35 

ix 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Lucius  Quintus  Cincinnatus  Laruar 36 

Thurlow  Weed 36 

Juarez,  the  Deliverer 37 

Samuel  Bowles 37 

Thomas  Simms 38 

To  Italy 147 

INDIAN  LEGENDS. 

The  Bay  of  Fundy's  Tides 24 

The  Legend  of  Pelot's  Bay 46 

The  Haunted  Lake  at  Cooperstown : 51 

The  Friar  of  Campobello 53 

Mount  Hope,  Narragansett  Bay G3 

Lover's  Leap 70 

HUMOROUS. 

"  Going  to  Thanksgiving  " 12 

They  Think 20 

A  Dream  of  Parnassus 21 

Cold  weather  Observations 38 

Pensive 42 

Compensation 50 

Sensitiveness 52 

"  Said  a  great  Congregational  preacher  "  £5 

Thanksgiving 56 

The  Balance  of  Rights 60 

The  Fug.tives  of  Peuobscot 61 

Sentiment 64 

Received  by  his  Prototype 66 

Scarcely  beneath  his  Notice 72 

"  Why  is  a-?  » 73 

Cold  weather  Reflections 75 

"  If  Lazarus  was  livin;  now  " 75 

Truthful  Biddy 82 

A  Russian  Legend 83 

Charles  Darwin,  D.  C.  L 87 

A  Salt-sea  Specter 94 

A  Hero  of  Benniugton 100 

The  President's  Au  revoir 103 

Reflections 107 

May  Day , .  .108 

A  bloodless  Do-ill 109 

The  King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands — 110 

In  contrast 114 

The  Day  we  Celebrate 117 

The  Megatherium 126 

A  Say  on  Man 134 

In  1864 143 

A  Warning 145 

CONCERNING  RELIGION. 

What  the  Voice  said 6 

A.  Dream  of  Death 16 


CONTENTS.  XI 

PAGE. 

Guibord  at  the  Gate 30 

The  silent  Horseman 68 

Perhaps 81 

Christmas  Morning 85 

Reply  to  Bishop  Coxe 102 

The  Toiler 127 

The  Arrival  of  the  Messiah 147 

In  the  Hospital 152 

Immortality 156 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

April 14 

Two  Breakfast  Dishes 15 

To  Brigham  Young 15 

The  Lightning  Train 28 

Echoes  on  the  Side  Wall 31 

Plea  for  Captain  Mary 33 

George  B.  McClellan 39 

A  New  Year  Summary 40 

Liberty  yearning  to  Light  the  World 42 

Guy  Fawkes,  Wilkes  Booth,  Thomasseu 45 

The  Story  of  Cape  Despair 57 

On  retiring  from  Office 59 

The  Balance  of  Rights CO 

Comment  on  his  Later  Verses G5 

The  yacht  Falcon  (song) 77 

Charles  Sumner,  1874 78 

Robins  in  the  Morning 79 

R.  B.  H.  to  S.  J.  T.— 1877 80 

To  a  Lizard  in  Amber 89 

Love  on  Skates 91 

A  Salt-sea  Specter 94 

Open  Letter  to  Brigham  Young 98 

Off  Vera  Cruz 99 

Nineteen  hundred  and  ninety-five 1*2 

To  my  Great-great-grandmother's  Portrait 115 

Silhouettes — impromptu 118 

The  Fort  at  St.  John. , 122 

Song  of  the  Silk-loom 131 

The  best  Government 133 

Our  Flag 130 

Crook  and  the  Apaches— 1887 137 

A  Word  for  the  Kanakas 13g 

A  Living  Memory 144 

A  Thoroughfare  under  the  Ocean. . .  ...  145 


THE  PROPHECY  — 1492. 

Read  at  the  Opening  of  the  World's  Columbian  Exposition 

at  Chicago,  Illinois,  May  i,  1893. 
Sadly  Columbus  watched  the  nascent  moon 
Drown  in  the  Gloomy  Ocean's  western  deeps. 

Strange  birds  that  day  had  fluttered  in  the  sails, 

And  strange  flowers  floated  round  the  wandering  keel, 

And  yet  no  land.     And  now,  when  thro  the  dark 

The  Santa  Maria  leaped  before  the  gale, 

And  angry  billows  tossed  the  caravels, 

As  to  destruction,  Gomez  Rascon  came 

With  Captain  Pinzon  thro  the  frenzied  seas, 

And  to  the  Admiral  brought  a  parchment  scroll, 

Saying.  "Good  Master:  Read  this  writing  here; 

An  earnest  prayer  it  is  from  all  the  fleet. 

The  crew  would  fain  turn  back  in  utter  fear. 

No  longer  to  the  Pole  the  compass  points. 

The  sailor's  star  reels  dancing  down  the  sky. 

You  saw  but  yestereve  an  albatross 

Drop  dead  on  deck  beneath  the  flying  scud. 

The  Devil's  wind  blows  madly  from  the  east 

Into  the  land  of  Nowhere,  and  the  sea 

Keeps  sucking  us  adown  the  maelstrom's  maw. 

Francisco  says  the  edge  of  earth  is  near, 

And  off  to  Erebus  we  slide  unhelmed. 


VROP1TECY  AND  OTHEH  POEMS. 

Last  Sunday  night  Diego  saw  a  witch 

Dragging  the  Nina  by  her  forechains  west 

And  wildly  dancing  on  a  dolphin's  back; 

And,  as  she  danced,  the  brightest  star  in  heaven 

Slipped  from  its  leash  and  sprang  into  the  sea, 

Like  Lucifer,  and  left  a  trail  of  blood. 

O,  Master,  hear  me  ! — turn  again  to  Spain, 

Obedient  to  the  omens,  or,  perchance, 

The  terror-stricken  crew,  to  escape  their  doom, 

May  mutiny  and — " 

"Gomez  Rascon,  peace!" 

Exclaimed  the  Admiral,  "  thou  hast  said  enough  .! 
Now,  prithee,  leave  me.      I  would  be  alone." 


Then  eagerly  Columbus  sought  a  sign, 

In  sea  and  sky  and  in  his  lonely  heart, 

But  found,  instead  of  presages  of  hope, 

The  black  and  ominous  portents  of  despair. 

The  wild  wind  roared  around  him,  and  he  heard 

Shrill  voices  shriek  "  Return  ! — return  !  —  return  !  " 

He  thought  of  Genoa  and  dreams  of  youth, 

His  father's  warning  and  his  mother's  prayers, 

Confiding  Beatriz,  her  prattling  babe, 

The  life  and  mirth  and  warmth  of  old  Castile, 

And  tempting  comfort  of  the  peaceful  land, 

And  sad  winds  moaned  "return  ! — return  ! — return  !  " 

As  thus  he  mused,  he  paced  the  after  deck 
And  gazed  upon  the  luminous  waves  astern. 
Strange  life  was  in  the  phosphorescent  foam, 
And  thro  the  goblin  glow  there  came  and  went, 
Like  elfin  shadows  on  an  opal  sea, 
Prophetic  pictures  of  the  laud  he  sought. 


THE  PROPHECY.  3 

He  saw  the  end  of  his  victorious  quest. 
He  saw,  ablaze  on  Isabella's  breast, 
The  gorgeous  Antillean  jewels  rest  — 
The  Islands  of  the  West ! 

He  saw  invading  Plenty  dispossess 
Old  Poverty,  the  land  with  bounty  bless, 
A.nd  thro  the  wailing  caverns  of  Distress 
Walk  star-eyed  Happiness  ! 

He  saw  the  Bourbon  and  Braganza  prone,  , 
For'ancient  error  tardy  to  atone, 
Giving  the  plundered  people  back  their  own 
And  flying  from  the  throne. 

He  saw  an  empire  radiant  as  the  day, 
Harnessed  to  law  but  under  Freedom's  sway, 
Proudly  arise,  resplendent  in  array, 
To  show  the  world  the  way. 

He  saw  celestial  Peace  in  mortal  guise, 
And,  filled  with  hope  and  thrilled  with  high  emprise, 
Lifting  its  tranquil  forehead  to  the  skies, 
A  vast  republic  rise. 

He  saw,  beyond  the  hills  of  golden  corn, 
Beyond  the  curve  of  Autumn's  opulent  horn, 
Ceres  and  Flora  laughingly  adorn 
The  bosom  of  the  morn. 

He  saw  a  cloth  of  gold  across  the  gloom, 
An  arabesque  from  Evolution's  loom, 
And  from  the  barren  prairie's  driven  spume 
Imperial  cities  bloom. 


PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

He  saw  an  iron  dragon  dashing  forth 
On  pathways  East,  and  West,  and  South  and  North, 
Its  bonds  uniting  in  beneficent  girth 
Remotest  ends  of  earth. 

He  saw  the  lightnings  run  an  elfin  race, 
Where  trade  and  love  and  pleasure  interlace, 
And  severed  friends  in  Ariel's  embrace 
Communing  face  to  face. 

He  saw  Relief  thro  deadly  dungeons  grope  ; 
Foes  turn  to  brothers,  black  despair  to  hope, 
And  cannon  rust  along  the  grass-grown  slope, 
And  rot  the  gallows  rope. 

He  saw  the  babes  on  Labor's  cottage  floor, 
The  bright  walls  hung  with  luxury  more  and  more, 
And  Comfort,  radiant  wijth  abounding  store, 
Wave  welcome  at  the  door. 

He  saw  the  myriad  spindles  flutter  round  ; 
The  myriad  mill-wheels  shake  the  solid  ground  ; 
The  myriad  homes  where  jocund  joy  is  found, 
And  Love  is  throned  and  crowned. 

He  saw  exalted  Ignorance  under  ban, 
Though  panoplied  in  force  since  time  began, 
And  Science,  consecrated,  lead  the  van, 
The  Providence  of  man. 

The  pictures  came  and  paled  and  passed  away. 
And  then  the  Admiral  turned  as  from  a  trance, 
His  lion  face  aglow,  his  luminous  eyes 
Lit  with  mysterious  fire  from  hidden  suns  : 
"  Now,  Martin,  to  thy  waiting  helm  again  ! 
Haste  to  the  Pinta  !     Fill  her  sagging  sails, 


THE  PROPHECY.  i 

For  on  my  soul  hath  dawned  a  wondrous  sight. 

1,0  !  —  thro  this  segment  of  the  watery  world 

Uprose  a  hemisphere  of  glorious  life  ! — 

A  realm  of  golden  grain  and  fragrant  fruits, 

And  men  and  women  wise  and  masterful, 

Who  dwelt  at  peace  in  rural  cottages 

And  splendid  cities  bursting  into  bloom — 

Great  lotus  blossoms  on  a  flowery  sea. 

And  happiness  was  there,  and  bright-winged  Hope — 

High  Aspiration,  soaring  to  the  stars  ! 

And  then  methought,  O,  Martin,  through  the  storm 

A  million  faces  turned  on  me  and  smiled. 

Now  go  we  forward — forward  ! — fear  avaunt ! 

I  will  abate  no  atom  of  my  dream, 

Though  all  the  devils  of  the  underworld 

Hiss  in  the  sails  and  grapple  to  the  keel ! 

Haste  to  the  Pinta  !     Westward  keep  her  prow, 

For  I  have  had  a  vision  full  of  light ! 

Keep  her  prow  westward  in  the  sunset's  wake 

From  this  hour  hence  and  let  no  man  look  back  !  " 


Then  from  the  Pinta's  foretop  fell  a  cry  — 

A  trumpet-song —  "  Ivight-ho !    I/ight-ho  !   I^ight-ho  ! ' 


WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID. 

Christmas  Eve  !   My  sad  repining 
Vanished  as  the  raindrops  ceased  ; 

Presto!  —  bright  the  sun  came  shining, 
And  a  rainbow  spanned   the  east, 
From  Apollo's  sheaf  released. 


PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Then  my  soul,  escaped  from  sorrow, 

Sent  aloft  the  jubilant  cry 
"  We  shall  have  a  pleasant  morrow — 

Lo  !  the  glorious  reply  ! 

Lo  !  the  Promise  in  the  sky  !  " 

Morning  came.     I  watched  uncertain, 
Waiting  on  the  gathering  gloom, 

Till  I  saw  the  sable  curtain 
Woven  in  the  cloudy  loom — 
Heard  afar  the  thunder  boom. 

Heaven  insensate  loosed  its  fountains 
From  the  troubled  zenith  then, 

And  the  storm  roared  down  the  mountains, 
Flooding  wide  the  haunts  of  men 
As  to  drown  the  world  again. 

And  a  Voice  fell  thro  the  changes: 

"Thou  art  vanity,  O  Man  ! 
Thou  would'st  have  the  infinite  ranges 

Moulded  to  thy  puerile  plan — 

Stunted  to  thy  petty  span. 

"Thou  would'st  bid  eternal  forces 
Bring  thee  sun  or  bring  thee  shower — 

Bid  the  strong-winged  universes 
Lend  their  everlasting  power 
To  the  whimsey  of  an  hour. 

'•Thou  would'st  wreck  the  firm  foundation 
Of  all  chemic  change,  and  mar 

The  love-story  of  creation. 
Thou  would'st  have  the  morning  star 
Harnessed  to  thy  pygmy  car  ! 


SAGUENAY. 

"In  this  circling  realm  of  order 
If  a  prayer  or  plea  could  cause, 

From  the  center  to  the  border 
Where  the  tide  of  being  draws, 
Any  lapse  of  Nature's  laws, 

"Planets  would  go  headlong  rocking; 
Stars  would  perish  one  by  one, 

All  their  orbits  interlocking  ; 
Earth  would  plunge  into  the  sun 
And  thy  midget  race  be  run  !" 

Gods  are  impotent  as  fairies  ; 
Devils  weak  as  shadows  are  ; 

For  the  arm  of  Nature  parries 
Every  weapon,  near  and  far, 
Like  the  sword,  Excalibar. 

Bound  in  obdurate  conditions, 
Vain  is  our  unheeded  cry, 

All  our  longings  and  petitions 
Come,  and  linger  and  pass  by, 
Like  the  colors  on  the  sky  ! 


THE  SAGUENAY. 

Rejoice,  my  soul,  for  thou  hast  had 

Right  royal  company  to-day ; 

Attired  in  spruce  and  hemlock  spray 
She  came,  so  savage,  grand  and  sad, 
Queen  of  the  northern  woods,  the  peerless  Saguenay. 


8  THE  PROPHECY  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Draped  in  the  twilight's  lilac  veil 

She  moved,  all  modestly  bedight ; 

Then,  as  the  regnant  orb  of  night 
A  vesture  flung  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
She  caught  the  sheen  and  robed  her  lustrous  limbs  with  light. 

Where'er  our  vapory  dragons  go, 
The  dryads  of  this  somber  hall, 
And  nymphs  and  gnomes  are  banished  all — 

All,  save  the  mighty  Manito 
Who  hides  within  his  caves  and  answers  to  our  call. 

Disguised  behind  our  very  tone 
His  voice  is  strange  and  full  of  tears  ; 
Each  plaint  of  sadness  reappears — 
The  songs  of  death  by  wild  winds  blown, 
The  battle's  muffled  yells,  the  dirge  of  vanished  years. 

No  life  in  all  these  solitudes  ! 

No  bird  on  all  the  haunted  shore  ! 
Here  pygmy  man  may  bow  before 
Stern  Nature's  elemental  moods, 
And  learn  to  reverence  her  spirit  more  and  more. 

The  sun  seems  alien.     Sheer  above 
Loom  the  precipitate  mountains  vast 
And  o'er  the  abyss  their  menace  cast, 
While,  in  each  iron-buttressed  cove 
Gloom  lurks  and  scowls  until  the  intrusive  day  be  past. 

Loch  Lomond  of  a  wilder  West ! 
We  list  for  Roderick's  martial  strain, 
And  watch  where  Rob  Roy's  plaid  again 

May  flutter  from  some  craggy  crest, 
Or  Allen's  fairy  skiff  may  skim  the  shining  plain, 


THE  THOUSAND   ISLANDS. 

Or  heather  blossom  where  the  hill 

Hath  put  its  purple  garment  on  ; 

The  vision  comes,  and  lo  !  is  gone  ; 
The  grand  unfathomed  fissure  still 
Stretches  away — away — a  thousand  lakes  in  one  ! 

No  grim  sarcophagus  thou  art, 

But  cradle  of  a  life  .to  be 

And  temple  of  its  majesty  ; 
The  very  silence  of  the  heart 
That  throbs  in  thine  abyss,  a  message  brings  to  me. 

Then  sing,  my  soul !  for  thou  hast  had 

Right  royal  company  to-day  ; 

In  evergreens  and  granite  gray 
She  came,  magnificently  clad, — 
Queen  of  the  northern  woods,  the  savage  Saguenay ! 

THE  THOUSAND  ISLANDS.2 

My  wandering  soul  is  satisfied  : 
I  rest  where  blooming  islands  ride 
At  anchor  on  the  tranquil  tide. 

The  sky  of  summer  shines  serene, 
And  sapphire  rivers  lapse  between 
The  thousand  bosky  shields  of  green. 

I  know  the  tale  the  red  man  sung  : 

How,  when  this  northern  land  was  young 

And  by  a  smiling  heaven  o'erhung, 

Its  beauty  stirred  the  Arch-fiend's  ire 
Till,  burning  with  insane  desire, 
He  smote  it  with  a  shaft  of  fire 


10  THE   PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

And  shattered  it  to  fragments.     "  See  !  " 

He  cried  with  diabolic  glee, 

"  The  Paradise  that  mocked  at  me  ! 

"  "Tis  sunk  beneath  the  wave.    No  trace 
Is  left  of  all  its  native  grace 
And  witchery  of  loveliness !  " 

But  Time  repairs  the  wreck  of  old, 

And  veils,  with  touches  manifold, 

The  shining  shards  with  green  and  gold. 

The  sad  wounds  hide  in  tender  moss, 
And  ferns  and  lichens  creep  across 
And  each  pathetic  scar  emboss. 

The  pine  its  coronal  uprears, 
And  banished  beauty  reappears 
'Neath  the  caresses  of  the  years. 

The  fairy-land  again  has  grown  ; 
The  Huron's  god  has  found  a  throne, 
And  Manito  reclaims  his  own. 

And  so  the  summer  shines  serene, 
And  sapphire  rivers  lapse  between 
The  thousand  bosky  shields  of  green. 

And  so  I  drift  in  silence  where 
Young  Bcho,  from  her  granite  stair, 
Flings  music  on  the  mellow  air, 

O'er  rock  and  rush,  o'er  wave  and  brake, 
Until  her  phantom  carols  wake 
The  voices  of  the  island  lake. 

The  mystic  strains  of  long  ago, 

The  savage  cries  to  Manito, 

And  corn-song  soaring,  sweet  and  low  ; 


THE   THOUSAND   ISLANDS.  II 

The  pleading  prayer  of  old  Francois  ; 
The  paddle-plash  of  Charlevoix  ; 
The  murmurs  of  the  Iroquois  ; 

The  angelus  of  Pere  Marquette — 
I  hear  its  cadence  falling  yet 
From  the  lone  spire  of  L,a  Galette. 

The  Past  comes  babbling  everywhere, 
As  Echo,  from  her  granite  stair, 
Flings  music  on  the  mellow  air. 

I  hear  the  menace  from  afar  ; 
I  hear  the  frenzied  voice  of  war 
Burst  from  the  guns  of  De  la  Barre. 

I  hear  Moore's  melodies  again — 

The  sweetness  of  "  La  Claire  Fontaine  " 

Drops  down  like  sunshine  after  rain. 

O'er  rock  and  rush,  o'er  wave  and  brake, 
Young  Echo's  phantom  carols  wake 
The  myriad  voices  of  the  lake. 

Beneath  my  skiff  the  long  grass  slides, 
The  muskallonge  in  covert  hides 
And  pickerel  flash  their  silver  sides, 

And  purple  vines  the  naiads  wore, 
A-tiptoe  on  the  liquid  floor, 
Nod  welcome  to  my  pulsing  oar. 

The  shadow  of  the  waves  I  see, 
Whose  luminous  meshes  seem  to  be 
The  love-web  of  Penelope. 

It  shimmers  on  the  yellow  sands, 
And  as,  beneath  the  weaver's  hands, 
It  creeps  abroad  in  throbbing  strands, 


f2       THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  braided  sunbeams  softly  shift, 
And  unseen  fingers,  flashing  swift, 
Unravel  all  the  golden  weft. 

So,  day  by  day,  I  drift  and  dream 
Among  fair  solitudes  that  seem 
The  crowning  glory  of  the  stream. 


"  GOING  TO  THANKSGIVING." 

"  Come,  Children  ;  to-inorrow  is  Thanksgiving  Day  ; 

Get  ready."     "  Yes,  papa  ;  hooray  and  hooray  ! 

We've  been  up  an  hour  and  are  ready  to  go  ; 

It's  jolly  to  visit  our  grandfather,  though  ! 

O,  never  mind  breakfast ;  we'll  eat  at  Podunk — 

A  ostrich  might  fill  hisself  out  of  the  trunk." 

"Mamma!  where's  my  stocking?"    "There — under  the  stove.' 

"  Augustus,  come  up  here  !"     "  What  is  it,  my  love  ?" 

"  O,  run  !  O,  come  quick  !  It  is  dreadful,  my  dear, 

The  baby  has  poked  several  beans  in  his  ear, 

And  swallowed  his  trumpet,  as  sure  as  you  live." 

"  Impossi — why,  no,  Jane,  it's  here,  up  his  sleeve." 

"  Come  on  !  We'll  be  left !  We  must  hurry  !  Where's  Fred  ? 

Sue,  run  back  and  find  him."     "  He's  gone  on  ahead  !" 

"  All  aboard  for  Podunk  !"     "  O,  Conductor  !  Stop  !  Wait ! 

I'll  hev  to  go  back  jest  as  certain  as  Fate — 

The  tickets — I  left  em — they're  on  the  settee  !" 

"  No,  father,  you  took  'em."     "  Maud,  run  back  and  see 

If  they're  in  the — Maria,  perhaps  they're  in  that — 

By  George  !  here  they  be  in  the  crown  of  my  hat !" 

"Hold  on!  Where's  that— "     "Ma!  I  want  something  to  eat." 

"  Here's  jelly  cake.     Don't  get  a  muss  on  the  seat." 

"  O,  here  'tis.     I  found  it.     Right  under  my  feet." 


RESURGAM.    CHICAGO;  1872.  13 

"  I'm  almost  distracted  my  dear."     "  So  be  I— 

This  racket ! — it  seems  jest  as  if  I  should  fly — 

Seven  children,  and  boxes  and  bundles  and  all, 

And — "  "  Waaa  !  "  "  O,  you  baby!  Now  why  don't  you  bawl  ? 

I  scarcely  didn't  touch  you  !  "  "  Don't  bother  him,  Fred  !" 

"  I  didn't !  But  he  hit  his  old  whip  on  my  head." 

"  Ma,  Em's  lost  her  hat  off  !  "  "  Ma,  Jennie's  doll's  broke." 

"  Ma,  Johnny  has  went  in  the  car  where  they  smoke." 

"  There  !  Now  you've  tipped  over  and  spilt  all  the  tea. 

"  Hush,  baby  !  O,  hush  !  You're  as  cross  as  can  be." 

["  Pe-quannock  !  "]  "  Ma,  Fido's  got  one  of  his  fits, 

And  Jennie  has  tore  her  new  frock  all  to  bits  !  " 

"  Hain't,  neither,  not  half  !  "     "Johnny  lost  his  right  shoe 

In  the  straw  in  the  horse  car  in  Third  Avenue." 

Children  in  Chorus  : 

"  O,  whoop  !  This  is  awfully  jolly,  I  say  ! 

I  wish  a  Thanksgiving  would  come  every  day  !  " 

RESURGAM.     CHICAGO;  1872. 

Live,  daughter  of  the  prairie,  live  ! 

What  seemed  thine  end  was  thy  beginning ! 
What  seemed  thy  shackles  did  but  give 
The  athlete  better  chance  of  winning  ! 
Where  yesterday  the  drunken  sun 
Was  reeling  at  the  fiery  chalice, 
A  miracle  he  sees  begun 

In  vaulting  dome  and  blooming  palace. 
Ring,  trowel,  ring ! 

Thy  shining  shield 

From  blaze  and  brand  shall  beauty  borrow  ; 
Sing,  builder,  sing ! 

The  ashen  field 
Shall  blossom  brighter  yet  to-morrow  ! 


14  THE   PROPHECY  AND   OTHER    POEMS. 

Hail,  daughter  of  the  prairie,  hail ! 

All  cheery  noises  swell  the  greeting  ; 
The  rattling  cart,  the  ringing  nail, 

The  hammer  on  the  anvil  beating, 
The  newsboy's  cry,  the  sailors'  call, 

The  song  that  makes  the  nooning  gladder, 
The  shout  for  mortar  on  the  wall, 

Where  climbs  the  hod  the  dizzy  ladder. 
Ring,  trowel,  ring ! 

The  bells  that  pealed 

Despair,  shall  Hope's  sweet  music  borrow  ; 
Sing,  builder,  sing, 

The  ashen  field 
Shall  blossom  brighter  yet  to-morrow. 

Rise,  daughter  of  the  prairie,  rise  ! 

As,  dancing  to  Amphion's  ditty 
Beneath  the  fabled  orient  skies 

Arose  the  wondrous  Theban  city, 
So  rise  our  magic  walls  to-day, 

Lured  upward  by  the  lute  of  Labor, 
Entranced  as  were  the  huts  of  clay 
By  music  of  the  Syrian  tabor  ! 
Ring,  trowel,  ring  ! 

The  heart,  annealed, 
Finds  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  sorrow  ! 
Sing,  builder,  sing ! 

The  ashen  field 
Shall  blossom  brighter  yet  to-morrow. 

APRIL. 
Lo  !  the  shower  that  appears 

When  the  brightness  is  gone — 

'Tis  the  Sky  shedding  tears 

At  the  loss  of  the  Sun  ! 


TO   BRIGHAM   YOUNG.  15 

TWO  BREAKFAST  DISHES.3 

When  an  angel  made  shad 

The  devil  was  mad, 
-For  it  seemed  such  a  feast  of  delight, 

So,  to  ruin  the  scheme, 

He  plunged  in  the  stream 
And  stuck  in  the  bones  out  of  spite. 

When  strawberries  red 

First  illumined  their  bed 
The  angel  looked  on  and  was  glad  ; 

But  the  devil,  'tis  said, 

Fairly  pounded  his  head, 
For  he'd  used  all  the  bones  for  the  shad. 

TO  BRIGHAM  YOUNG. 
PRESIDENT  OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  LATTER-DAY  SAINTS — 1877. 

Halt,  Brigham  !  You've  scolded  and  stormed  like  a  harridan  ; 

Have  threatened  Grant,  Uncle  Sam,  Sherman  and  Sheridan  ; 

Have  spouted  a  picturesque  sort  of  profanity 

Although  they  have  treated  your  harem  with  lenity — 

Although  they  have  spared  your  indecorous  notions, 

Your  weddings  off  color  and  grotesque  devotions — 

Although  when  you  sealed  a  new  rural  or  city  mate 

They  let  the  transaction  pass  off  as  legitimate  ; 

Till  now,  with  proud  mein  and  a  plea  somewhat  slender, 

With  voice  like  a  hag  of  the  feminine  gender, 

With  words  in  falsetto  and  gestures  quite  frantic, 

You  rush  to  the  front  to  mop  back  the  Atlantic. 

In  vain  !  With  Fate's  solemn  decree  you're  disputing — 

Can  aught  be  more  mad  than  this  Mormon  Canuting  ? 

Forsooth,  you  would  fight  to  maintain  your  pretentious 

Your  wives  and  your  follies,  your  dupes  and  your  pensions. 

Now  Brigham,  see  here  !  lend  an  ear-flap  and  listen — 

A  tale  with  a  moral — just  hearken  to  this  'un  : 


l6  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

An  Injin — I  knew  and  disliked  him — moreover 

You  remind  me  of  that  aboriginal  rover — 

An  Injin,  all  speckled  and  tattooed  of  visage, 

Resisted,  as  you  do,  the  progress  of  this  age. 

He  wished  that  the  telegraphs  might  be  abated  ; 

The  railroads  advancing  he  cordially  hated  ; 

So  one  day  he  picked  out  his  longest  and  best  rein 

And  started  to  capture  the  Denver  express  train. 

One  end  of  the  lasso  he  tied  round  his  body, 

Then  hid  in  the  bushes,  then  swallowed  some  toddy  ; 

The  rattle  of  wheels  in  the  distance  is  humming  ; 

The  desperate,  fury-fed  dragon  is  coming ! 

A  whistle  !  A  roar  !  The  lithe  lasso  leaps  yonder 

And  hovers  in  air  like  a  coiled  anaconda  ; 

The  train  rushes  by — a  dense  cloud  interposes, 

But  the  lasso  the  neck  of  the  monster  encloses ! 

He's  got  him  !  The  Injin  has  captured  the  stranger  ! — 
The  iron-winged,  thunder-voiced,  fire-breathing  ranger. 

I  have  but  to  add — here  the  moral  is  hingin' — 

That  they  never  found  head,  neck  or  heels  of  that  Injin  ! 


A  DREAM  OF  DEATH. 

READ  AT  THE  FUNERAI,  OF  HENRY  EVANS,  AN  AGNOSTIC, 
BROOKLYN,  JULY,  1881. 

I  slept,  and  sleeping  dreamed,  and  in  my  dream 

Saw,  struggling  through  the  highways  of  the  world 

In  wretched  pomp,  the  grim  parade  of  man — 

The  young  and  old,  the  vigorous  and  weak, 

Some  thrilled  with  joy  and  flushed  with  hope  supern, 

Some  heavy-laden,  footsore,  sick  at  heart, 


A   DREAM   OF   DEATH.  17 

They  fought  their  way,  a  blind  and  eager  throng. 

Cimmerian  darkness  fiercely  clasped  them  all, 

Save  when  they  caught  the  flickering  glimmer  shed 

Around  the  far-off  globe  of  steady  fire 

Uplifted  like  a  Beltane  altar-flame 

By  firm  heroic  hands  of  them  in  front. 

A  few  declared  there  was  a  sun  beyond 

The  gloomy  concave,  but  it  gave  no  light, 

And  no  man  living  ever  saw  its  ray 

Or  felt  its  warmth  amid  the  chilly  dank. 

Lo  !  As  the  wierd  procession  crept  along, 

A  sprite,  the  tricksy  Ariel  men  call  Life, 

Went  dodging  like  a  firefly  through  the  dark, 

Passing  his  feeble  torch  from  hand  to  hand, 

And  laughing  as  he  sped. — He  gave  the  torch 

To  helpless  babes,  who  gurgled  full  of  glee 

And  instantly  to  lads  and  lasses  changed, 

And  played,  and  danced,  and  kissed,  and  planned,  and  then 

The  torch  was  snatched — they  fell  to  rise  no  more. 

A  sage  I  saw  who  opened  his  learned  lips 

To  utter  truths  the  world  had  yearned  to  hear, 

But  Ariel  seized  his  torch  and  he  was  dumb 

Forever.     So  the  traveler's  torture-track 

Was  strewed  with  martyred  ones  and  wet  with  tears, 

And  wails  of  woe  went  up  from  hearts  bereft 

That  always  drowned  the  songs  of  merriment. 

Upon  the  bearer  of  the  torch  I  turned  : 

"  Thou  impious  trifler  with  the  heart  of  man  ! 

How  durst  thou  thus  betray  the  dreams  of  youth, 

And  fondest  hopes  of  bright  maturity  ! 

Thou  art  a  murderer,  fantastic  fool ! 

Better  put  out  thy  torch  forevermore 


18  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Than  fill  the  world  with  mourning  !  " 

Then  he  smiled 
And  beckoned — "  Come,"  he  said,  "  and  walk  with  me." 

He  led  to  opulent  fields  of  rustling  grain, 

To  fair  and  shady  forests,  rippling  grass, 

And  Nature's  fragrant  garden  full  of  flowers. 

"  Behold  the  resurrection  of  the  dead  !  " 

He  spake  right  joyously  :  "  these  grand  old  oaks, 

These  verdurous  sycamores,  those  fruity  vines, 

Once  lived  and  danced — strong  men  and  women  fair, 

These  roses,  pinks  and  daffodils  were  babes, 

And  when  they  fall  will  grow  to  babes  again, 

And  join  my  motley  pageant  rich  with  life. 

For  every  atom  in  the  sentient  world 

Through  all  the  cycles  of  the  cosmic  dance 

Goes  wheeling — palpitates  in  bird  and  clod, 

In  tear  and  rainbow,  star  and  sentient  brain. 

Thus  L,ife  is  only  Death  in  masquerade, 

And  Death  is  only  variant  Life  to  be, 

For  every  coffin  to  a  cradle  turns 

And  rocks  a  life  to  beauty  underground." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  "  I  said,  "  I  see  the  body  goes 

And  comes  again  in  flower  and  verdant  sod, 

But  where  the  spirit  that  informs  the  clay — 

That  makes  it  think  and  soar  and  throb  with  life  ?  " 

"  Behold  !  "  he  cried,  and  shook  his  shining  torch  : 

"  Some  call  me  Zeus,  some  God,  some  Jupiter, 

Jehovah,  Moloch,  Typhon,  Manito, 

A  thousand  names,  and  fight  about  the  name, 

And  build  them  altars,  thumb-screws,  racks  and  creeds, 

And  slay  each  other  at  the  christening. 


A   DREAM   OF   DEATH. 

I  was  begot  of  Matter  and  of  Force 

Which  no  beginning  had — will  have  no  end — 

The  mighty,  infinite,  insensate  power 

Which  fills  and  floats  the  boundless  universe." 

"  But  whence  Affection  ?  "  I,  persisting,  asked, 
"  And  Sympathy  and  all  its  blessed  brood  ?  " 

"  Yonder  !  "  he  said,  and  pointed  to  the  globe 

Of  steady  fire  that  glimmered  down  the  ranks, 

Uplifted  like  a  Beltane  altar-flame 

By  brave  heroic  hands  of  them  in  front. 

"  It  is  the  lamp  of  love  whose  fire  is  fed 

By  oil   of  knowledge  from  experience  drawn. 

The  madly  wandering  myriads  see  it  not, 

Or  seeing,  can  conjecture  whence  it  comes 

Or  whither  guides,  and  so  they  stumble  on 

Through  paths  debasing,  led  by  Ignorance, 

The  misbegotten  child  of  Circumstance." 

"  A  luminous  jet ;  who  lighted  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  That  spark  was  kindled  "  Ariel  gently  said 
"  By  primal  man  in  his  arboreal  home — 
First  of  his  race  who  highest  pleasure  found, 
And  marked  the  only  road  that  leads  thereto — 
The  sacred  road  of  mutual  helpfulness. 
He  lit  the  lamp  for  all  that  follow  him. 
Its  flame  steals  splendor  from  unconscious  life. 
A  truth  drops  toward  it  like  a  meteor  spark. 
A  strong  man's  voice,  a  woman's  secret  thought, 
Sometimes  a  baby's  smile,  will  make  it  glow — 
A  gracious  beacon  in  a  perilous  sea  ! 
Good  will,  a  love  of  justice,  mercy,  peace, 
All  make  the  lambent  flame  more  radiant, 


20  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

And  thus  it  brighter  grows  from  year  to  year. 
No  man  who  lives  and  toils  but  lends  to  it 
Some  feeble  ray.     Sweet  tolerance  for  all 
Who  heedless  trip  and  suffer,  feeds  the  lamp 
With  holy  chrism  ;  and  that  benign  self-love 
Which  finds  the  highest  joy  in  others'  joy, 
Enkindles  it  to  glory  like  a  star. 
See  how  it  shines  !  " 

That  moment  I  awoke 

And  walked  abroad.     A  chill  was  in  the  air. 
And  then  they  told  me  that  our  friend  was  dead. 


THEY  THINK. 

THE  FARMER'S  WIFE  : 

I  think  that  a  farmer  like  you  ought  to  dig- 

Nify  his  high  calling  each  day  ; 
But  'tis  hard  to  sit  under  your  own  vine  and  fig- 

Ure  up  debts  that  you  know  you  can't  pay. 

THE  FARMER : 

I  think  that  your  friendly  expression  is  fun- 

Damentally  wise  and  discreet ; 
Suppose  you  now  run  and  turn  off  a  puu- 

Kin  pie  that  your  husband  can  eat. 

THE  WIFE: 

I  think  a  good  deal  of  your  money  is  bet- 
Ter  than  credit,  if  paid  at  the  store  ; 

For  then  by  the  grocery  stove  you  can  set- 
Tie  the  bill  that  will  haunt  you  no  more. 


A  DREAM  OF  PARNASSUS.  21 

THE  HUSBAND  : 

I  think  an  affectionate  wife  should  be  kind- 
Ling  the  fire  ere  her  husband  awakes, 
And  let  him  rise  later  and  sit  in  the  wind- 
Ow  and  read  while  she's  baking  the  cakes. 

SHE  : 

I  think  that  you  promised  my  cloak  should  be  fur- 

Nished  in  time  for  the  holiday  wear  ; 
But  now  you  demur  ;  we're  so  poor,  my  dear  Sir- 
Loin  steak  on  the  table  is  rare. 

HE: 

I  think  'tis  a  serious  question  how  far- 
Mers'  Alliances  influence  banks  ; 

Perhaps  all  our  transports  will  be  in  a  car- 
Nival  of  fanatics  and  cranks. 


A  DREAM  OF  PARNASSUS. 

THE  ERA  OF  CHEAP  BOOKS  AND  WHAT  THE  IMMORTALS 
THINK  ABOUT  IT. 

I  slept  where  the  moon,  serenely  bright, 
Shone  full  in  my  face  through  a  summer  night ; 
I  dreamt  I  was  in  a  Land  of  Light, 
With  Fielding  and  Moore  and  Shelley  and  White, 
And  Shakspeare  and  Milton — a  goodly  sight ! — 
With  Addison,  Dryden,  and  others,  quite 

Too  numerous  to  mention  ; 
And  there  the  worthies,  one  and  all, 
Whom  we  the  "  classical  authors  "  call, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  Parnassus  tall, 
On  Pegasus  Place,  in  Helicon  Hall, 

Were  holding  a  big  convention. 


22          THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Virgil  was  sitting  beside  Voltaire, 
Boccaccio  chatting  with  Duma*,  pere, 
And  Pope  curled  up  in  the  corner  there, 
While  grave  Sam  Johnson  was  in  the  chair, 
Wall-eyed  and  grim,  with  carroty  hair, 
And  he  said,  "  Of  course  you  are  all  aware 

Of  the  latest  earthly  advices  : 
The  publishers  old  are  going  to  smash 
Beneath  the  great  '  economy  '  lash, 
For  the  Ten-cent  library,  cutting  a  dash 
Exceedingly  reckless  and  awfully  rash, 
Is  selling  for  almost  nothing  for  cash 

And  ruining  regular  prices  ! 

"  I  hold  in  my  hand  a  letter  from  four 
American  publishers  who  feel  sore  ; 
They  speak  for  a  score,  or  possibly  more, 
Who  live  by  a  traffic  in  printed  lore. 
I  read  :  '  We  pray  from  this  earthly  shore — 

Ye  authors  of  old,  attend  us  ! 
O,  give  us  a  lift  in  this  hour  of  need, 
For  the  publishing  business  is  going  to  seed  ; 
The  Ten-cent  pirates  are  making  with  speed 
As  many  books  as  the  folks  can  read, 
And  selling  disgracefully  low,  indeed  ; 
It  cheapens  your  fame — for  you  we  plead  ! — 

Ye  talented  ghosts,  defend  us  !  ' 

"  What  word  shall  we  send  to  the  anxious  band 
Then  Walter  Scott,  with  a  book  in  his  hand, 
Arose  (amid  cries  of  "  Take  the  stand  !  ") 
And  said,  "  Cheap  books  will  possess  the  land  ; 
There  is  no  use  for  the  gilt-edge  brand, 
While  a  man  with  a  dime  can  always  command 


A    DREAM   OF   PARNASSUS.  23 

The  brams  of  sage  and  scholar : 
A  nickel  for  Pope — good  binding  on  ; 
The  same  for  the  poems  of  Tennyson  ; 
Six  cents  for  your  Pilgrim's  Progress,  John  ; 
For  the  Iliad,  twenty  cents  ;  and  Don 

Quixote  for  half  a  dollar  !  " 

Then  Chaucer  said,  "  I  am  rather  old, 
But  am  mighty  glad  this  day  to  be  told 
How  cheap  my  Canterbury  Tales  are  sold, 
And  copper  will  buy  the  treasures  of  gold 
In  the  poets  and  wits  of  the  Queen  Anne  fold, 
Steele  the  bright  and  De  Foe  the  bold, 
Berkeley  the  sober  and  Swift  the  scold, 

The  travels  of  Walter  Raleigh, 
Shakspeare's  works,  and  Smollett's  and  Sterne's, 
Bacon,  Bolingbroke,  Byron  and  Burns  ; 

And  Babington  Lord  Macauley." 

Charles  Dickens  said,  "  'Twere  foolish  to  let 

Good  luck  of  mortals  cause  regret ; 

For  the  price  of  a  theater-ticket  they  get 

Milman's  Gibbon — the  perfect  set — 

Dante  and  Virgil,  a  half  crown  net 

For  a  shilling  Adam  Smith  on  Debt, 

And  Mill  on  the  Law  of  Nations  ; 
And  I  see  by  this  wondrous  circular 
The  Eachside  Library  sends,  that  for 
Seven  cents  you  get  the  Seven  Years'  War, 
For  a  dime,  King  Henry  of  Navarre, 
And  for  thrice  the  price  of  a  good  cigar 

Will  Shakspeare's  inspirations." 

Then  Goldsmith  rose  and  expressed  it  thus  : 
"  It  is  simply  a  case  of  de  gustibus  ; 


24  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

I  see  no  reason  for  all  this  fuss, 

For  publishers  never  did  much  for  us, 

While  needy,  summer  and  winter  ; 
Therefore,  my  brothers,  I  hold  this  view  : 
The  high-price  houses  are  doubtless  blue, 
But  unto  the  man  our  thanks  are  clue 
Who  sends  our  thoughts  each  palace  through, 
And  into  the  humblest  cottage,  too, 
For  the  Many  are  always  more  than  the  Few 

And  the  People  are  more  than  the  Printer  !  " 

A  slight  shade  rose — 'twas  Edgar  Poe — 
Who  said,  "  I'm  talking  here  with  De  Foe  ; 
We  agree,  and  the  ancients  tell  us  so, 
Who  makes  two  printed  leaves  to  show 
Where  only  one  did  formerly  grow 
Is  as  good  a  man  as  we  want  to  know. 
This  selfish  grumble  from  realms  below 

Reveals  its  earthly  animus  ; 
I  move  it  be  not  received  !  "     About 
A  thousand  voices  removed  all  doubt, 
Ben  Jonson  and  Halleck  and  Hood  spoke  out, 
Kit  North  and  Irving  and  Father  Prout, 
'Mid  a  storm  of  cheers  and  a  mighty  shout, 

The  motion  passed — unanimous  ! 


THE  BAY  OF  FUNDY'S  TIDES.* 

How  it  puzzles  every  white  man  ! — 
When  the  foaming,  hump-backed  Ocean, 
kike  a  big  whale  rushing  inland, 
Splashes  up  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
Climbs  the  shores  of  Minas  Basin, 
Sprawls  above  the  salt-sea  meadows, 


THE  BAY  OF  FUNDY'S  TIDES.  25 

Frolics  on  the  suiiny  shallows, 
Till  the  Moon,  its  mother,  beckons, 
When  afar  it  flies  affrighted. 
Like  a  she-bear's  roving  twin-cubs 
Playing  in  a  farmer's  garden 
Knowing  nothing  of  the  danger, 
Till  the  dam,  pursuing,  finds  them, 
And,  with  many  a  growl  and  whimper, 
Calls  them  to  their  native  forest, 
So  scared  Ocean  hurries  homeward — 
Sight  that  puzzles  every  white  man. 

But  the  Micmac  knows  the  secret — 
Knows  how  he,  the  mighty  Glooskap, 
Chief  of  chiefs  and  king  of  hunters, 
Living  in  his  purple  wigwam 
Up  among  the  clouds  of  morning, 
Taught  the  lazy,  hump-backed  Ocean 
To  arise  and  do  his  bidding : 
And  the  story  I  will  tell  you. 

'Twas  a  squaw  that  made  the  trouble. 

Good  was  Glooskap,  strong  and  tender  ; 
He  was  taller  than  a  pine-tree 
And  the  thunder  was  the  echo 
Of  his  wrath  and  his  complaining, 
And  the  trailing  clouds  of  cirrus 
Were  the  giant's  floating  tresses 
With  the  summer  sun  upon  them 
And  he  made  the  night  and  morning, 
Gave  the  seed  time  and  the  harvest, 
From  his  blanket  spilt  the  raindrops, 
From  his  quiver  shot  the  lightnings, 
Painted  blossoms  on  the  hillside. 


26  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Minas  was  his  pond  of  beavers  ; 
And  the  whales  he  drove  to  harness, 
And  the  white  bears  were  his  bulldogs, 
A.nd  their  nests  the  eagles  builded 
In  the  foldings  of  his  mantle. 

All  around  his  purple  wigwam 
Caribou  and  deer  were  sporting, 
Foxes,  squirrels,  wolves  and  panthers  ; 
Men  and  beasts  all  spoke  one  language 
And  together  dwelt  as  brothers, 
While  good  Glooskap  smiled  upon  them, 
Kept  them  warm  and  gave  them  plenty. 
She,  his  squaw,  he  decked  in  jewels, — 
Bands  of  gold  upon  her  forehead, 
Strings  of  jacinth  in  her  tresses, 
Calcite  crystals  for  her  ear-drops, 
'Neath  her  nose  a  bell  of  rubies, 
And  her  robe  was  sewed  with  silver 
With  embroidery  of  sapphire, 
While  her  armlets  and  her  anklets 
Were  such  chains  of  jade  and  jasper, 
Diamond,  amethyst  and  opal, 
That,  when  strolling  near  her  wigwam 
In  the  forest-trails  of  heaven, 
Many  a  skipper  in  his  shallop 
Shouted  o'er  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
"  See  !  a  new  star  yonder  lighted  !  " 

She  had  all  that  Earth  could  give  her — 

All  and  yet  she  was  unhappy, 

Ever  restless,  discontented 

In  the  thought  of  things  imagined. 

And  she  went  to  Glooskap  weeping 


THE   BAY  OF   FUNDY'S  TIDES.  2J 

And  besought  him  for  a  favor  ; 
Would  he  put  his  whales  to  harness, 
Give  them  wings  upon  their  shoulders, 
Lash  them  through  the  heavenly  spaces, 
Snatch  the  dogstar,  and,  returning, 
Bring  it  to  her  for  a  trinket  ? 

Then  good  Glooskap  saw  his  folly, 
And  he  stripped  her  of  her  jewels, — 
Every  glittering  gaud  tore  from  her, 
And,  with  many  an  angry  gesture, 
Strewed  them  down  the  deepening  twilight 
All  around  the  Bay  of  Minas. 
Showers  of  precious  gems  came  twinkling 
Till  it  seemed  the  stars  were  falling. 

Then  cried  Glooskap  to  the  Ocean  : 

"  Now  arise  and  do  my  bidding ! 

Go  and  come  each  night  and  morning  ; 

Go  at  morn  and  come  at  midday  ; 

Go  at  noon  and  come  at  sunset ; 

Go  at  dusk  and  come  at  midnight ; 

Flow  and  ebb  through  many  fathoms  ; 

Go  and  come  above  the  jewels 

That  my  haughty  queen  dishonored. 

Go  till  she  shall  see  them  shining 

Where  the  sunken  rocks  lie  naked, 

But,  when  she  shall  stoop  to  pick  them, 

Run  and  hide  them  !  Run  and  hide  them  ! 

Thus,  revealing  and  concealing, 

Thou  shalt  go  and  come  forever." 

Glooskap  long  ago  departed — 
Furled  his  wigwam  and  departed — 
Beckoned  home  his  truant  eagles, 


28  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

Put  his  spotted  whales  to  harness, 
Lashed  them  through  the  foaming  ocean 
To  the  seas  beyond  the  sunset. 

Then  the  stone  canoe  he  paddled 
In  the  bay  became  an  island, 
And  his  fishing-rod  a  causeway 
Leading  to  it  o'er  the  water  ; 
And  the  fog  his  wigwam's  shadow  ; 
And  his  bulldogs,  turned  to  granite, 
Blomidon,  their  old  name,  bearing, 
Crouch  and  howl  above  the  Basin. 

So  the  tides,  each  night  and  morning, 
Go  and  come  as  Glooskap  bade  them  ; 
Go  and  come,  a  fretful  ocean, 
Go  and  come  in  playful  frenzy, 
Snatching  every  shining  pebble 
From  the  fingers  of  the  squaw-queen  ; 
Go  and  come,  ten  mighty  fathoms, 
Go  and  come  above  the  jewels, 
And  shall  go  and  come  forever. 

THE  LIGHTNING  TRAIN. 

With  lungs  of  iron  and  wings  of  flame, 

With  nerves  and  sinews  of  quivering  steel, 
With  ribs  of  brass  and  a  giant's  frame 
He  spurns  the  earth  with  an  angry  heel. 
Through  midnight  black 
His  eyeballs  glare 
With  a  ghastly  stare 
On  the  startled  track, 

And  he  rends  the  sky  with  a  scream  of  pain — 
O,  a  monster  grim  is  the  lightning  train. 


THE   LIGHTNING  TRAIN.  29 

The  legend  tells  of  a  milk-\vhite  steed 

That  carried  Mohammed  from  earth  to  heaven  ; 
As  swift  as  a  flash  of  light  her  speed, 
And  jeweled  wings  to  her  feet  were  given. 
Each  leap  was  as  far 
As  eye  hath  sight, 
Each  hoof  was  as  bright 
As  a  blazing  star  ; 

And  a  gleam  like  the  stream  a  comet  yields 
Al  Borak  left  in  the  rosy  fields. 

A  wonderful  arrow  was  that  of  old 

That  bore  Saint  Abaris  through  the  land  ; 
It  was  feathered  with  light  and  barbed  with  gold, 
And  sped  by  the  touch  of  Apollo's  hand. 
With  sibilant  song 
It  cleft  the  cloud, 
That  shouted  aloud 
As  it  flashed  along, 

And  the  sea  never  saw,  from  its  throbbing  tide, 
A  vision  so  rare  as  the  prophet's  ride. 

The  Sultan's  cap  and  magical  wand 
Bore  Fortunatus  to  isles  remote  ; 
The  talisman  took  him  to  every  land 
And  to  every  sky  in  its  airy  boat ; 
But  the  shining  shaft 
From  the  archer's  arm, 
Aladdin's  charm, 
And  the  phantom  craft, 

And  the  steed  that  skimmed  the  azure  plain, 
Are  all  combined  in  the  flying  train. 

It  devours  the  forest  and  drinks  the  lake, 
Then  plunges  down  the  wild  ravines 


30          THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

With  the  wealth  of  the  world  on  its  burdened  back  ; 
A  sooty  man  from  the  saddle  leans, 
And  a  murky  wreath 
Its  jaws  emit 
As  he  tightens  the  bit 
In  the  dragon's  teeth, 

And  his  cheek  is  swept  by  the  fiery  mane — 
O,  a  monster  grim  is  the  lightning  train  ! 

GUIBOBD  AT  THE  GATE.5 

SCENE  :  Parapet  of  Paradise  ;  principal  Gate. 
TIME  :  Morning. 

JOSEPH  GUIBORD  SPEAKS  : 
Hail,  Holy  Father  !  Gladly  I  salute  you  ! 
Painfully  have  I  sought  your  sacred  presence  ; 
Hoist  your  portcullis,  warder,  don't  mind  my 
Incomplete  apparel. 

ST.  PETER  SPEAKS: 

Joseph,  you  ghost  you  !  Tell  me  where  your  bones  are  ? 
No  harbor  here  for  people  without  bodies  ! 
Why  have  you  left  your  skeleton  behind  you  ? 

Who's  got  your  baggage  ? 

Didst  thou  forget  it,  suddenly  awaking  ? 
Or,  in  desperation,  sell  it  to  the  devil  ? 
Or,  impecunious,  lend  it  to  your  Uncle  ? 
Speak,  wretched  mollusc  ! 

GUIBORD  SPEAKS  : 

Father  !  I've  neither  spouted  it  nor  sold  it, 
Yet  had  to  leave  it  on  my  native  planet, 
They  mobbed  my  widow  when  she  tried  to  put  it 

In  the  cemetery. 


ECHOES  ON   THE  SIDE  WALT,.  31 

Good  pious  people  fought  around  my  body — 
Fought  six  years,  with  curses,  fire  and  axes — 
Finally  one  set  buried  it  and  piled  ten 
Tons  of  rock  upon  it. 

Other  set  one  night  prowled  around  and  got  it, 
Filled  up  the  hole,  turfed  it  over  nicely, 
Carried  off  the  bones  to  a  mill  adjacent — 
Ground  'em  into  phosphates  ! 

ST.  PETER  SPEAKS. 

Come  in,  Joseph  !  You  are  one  of  our  folks  ! 
Victim  of  folly,  fraud  and  superstition  ! 
Joseph,  pardon  my  keeping  you  a-standing 

Out  in  the  cold  there. 

Earth  seems  just  as  full  of  fools  as  ever  ! 
Poor  creed-mongers  couldn't  let  your  bones  rest ; 
I'll  make  it  sultry  if  they  come  around  here 
Fooling  with  the  knocker. 

ECHOES  ON  THE  SIDE  WALL.6 

OF  THE  METROPOLITAN  MUSEUM  OF  ART  IN  NEW  YORK 

CITY. 

Retreat  of  marble  cripples  from  afar — 

Collection  calculated  to  cajole  a 
City  to  drag  in  its  triumphal  car 

Its  excavator,  General  Di  Cesnola — 
ECHO:  "Ola!" 

Harbor  of  Aphrodite  with  six  fingers, 

And  "  Hope  "  discovered  in  a  mausoleum, 

Hospital  where  deformed  Apollo  lingers, 
And  Cupid  wrestles  with  the  mumps,  Museum — 
ECHO:  "See  'em I" 


32  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

O,  tell  me,  are  the  wild  repairs  completed, — • 

These  gods  amorphous  from  the  Golgoi  garden  ? 

Or  must  they  still  through  endless  years  be  "  treated 
By  processes  detected  by  Feuardent  ? 
ECHO  :  "  Few  are  done!  " 

What  doth  the  antiquarian  with  these  ? 

With  shapeless  vases  and  Phcenecian  medals  ? 
With  four-winged  Juno  with  the  bulgy  knees  ? 

And  slender  Venus  with  stupendous  pedals  ? 
ECHO:  "Peddles!" 

Where  were  they  found  ?  At  Salamis  ?  Golgoi  ? 

On  Cyprus  in  an  island  rather  spacious  ? 
These  "  treasures  "  from  the  neighborhood  of  Troy 

Found  in  a  dozen  lands  were  quite  migrations — 
ECHO  :  ' '  My  gracious  !  ' ' 

Why  did  they  use  this  plaster,  putty,  glue, 

Cement,  wood,  varnish,  in  the  transformations  ? 

What  did  they  seek  with  these  "  repairs  "  in  view  ? 
What  did  they  seek  in  all  these  "  restorations  "  ? 
ECHO:  "Rations!" 

And  is  this  art  ? — this  gluing  on  of  mirrors  ? 

This  splicing  out  of  portions  maxillary  ? 
This  multiplying  of  archaic  terrors  ? 

This  carpentring  so  extraordinary  ? 
ECHO:  "Nary!" 

O,  august  temple  of  the  maniac  Muses  ! 
Shrine  of  the  art  of  Phidias  in  dilution, 

Where  Psyche  hides  behind  her  wounds  and  bruises- 
Why  wert  though  built,  thou  bricken  institution  ? 
E;CHO:  "  To  shun  I" 


PI,EA   FOR  CAPTAIN   MARY.  33 

PIvEA  FOR  CAPTAIN  MARYJ 

Uncle  Sam  !  A  woman  calls  you — 
In  her  steamboat  overhauls  you, 
Hovering  on  Nebraska's  borders 
Trumpeting  a  captain's  orders, 
While  the  storm,  in  triple  fury, 
Rages  down  the  brown  Missouri. 
She  exclaims  "  fair  play  ! — no  favor  !  " 
Never  was  a  woman  braver  ; 
Heed  the  call  and  pass  the  tiller 
To  the  hand  of  Mary  Miller  ! 

"  Woman's  work  is  sewing,  mending, 
Washing,  baking,  baby-tending  "- 
Yes,  I  know,  but  Mary's  baby 
Has  outgrown  the  nursery,  may  be, 
And  its  father,  helpless,  lying 
In  the  cabin,  slowly  dying, 
Never  more  will  face  the  weather 
In  the  craft  they've  served  together. 
Sam  !  Have  sense  ;  and  pass  the  tiller 
To  the  hand  of  Mary  Miller  ! 

Women  can't  all  live  in  leisure 
Waltzing  to  the  waltz's  measure, 
Opera-going,  reading  sonnets, 
Wearing  fancy  Easter  bonnets, 
Nor  can  home  life,  warmly  human, 
Find  a  place  for  every  woman. 
Some,  unlike  the  richer  neighbor, 
Join  the  jostling  ranks  of  labor, 
At  the  desk,  the  oar,  the  tiller — 
Honor,  then,  to  Mary  Miller  ! 


34          THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Brave  Grace  Darling,  Peggy  Martin, 

Jane  McCrea  and  Clara  Barton, 

Molly  Stark  and  Molly  Pitcher 

Make  our  history's  pages  richer. 

And  remember  Debby  Tompson, 

Lois  Hull  and  Becky  Samson, 

Fighting  in  the  ranks  and  wounded 

In  the  war  our  nation  founded — 

Still  there's  room  on  Fame's  broad  pillar — 

For  the  name  of  Mary  Miller  ! 

Uncle  !  Mary's  made  a  study 

Of  the  blustering  "  Big  Muddy  :  " — 

Knows  its  snags  and  sandbars  hidden, 

Knows  the  bend  by  snake-heads  ridden, 

Knows  the  whirlpool  in  the  water 

Where  has  walked  the  "  witch's  daughter  ;  " 

Knows  the  bluff  by  shadows  haunted — 

Knows,  and  steers  the  craft  undaunted  ; 

Danger  flies  when  at  the  tiller 

Stands  the  plucky  Mary  Miller. 

Sam  !  Your  secretary,  Folger, 
Says  "  The  mariner  and  soldier 
Must  be  men.     Whate'er  may  happen, 
Mary  Miller  can't  be  cap'n  !  " 
But  she  is  !  The  hard  position 
She  has  filled,  with  no  commission. 
Don't  withhold  it.     'Tis  ungallant 
Thus  to  hamper  pluck  and  talent. 
Stand  aside  !  hands  off  the  tiller  ! 
It  belongs  to  Mary  Miller. 


SEVEN  SONNETS.  35 

SONNETS. 


U.  S.  GRANT. 

"  Dead  !  "  So  we  call  it  in  our  helpless  phrase. 

Not  so  !  He  lives  and  joins  the  joyous  throng. 
Life  leads  him  down  her  fair,  familiar  ways 

Proudly,  and  with  exultant  voice  and  strong 

Recounts  his  deeds  and  chants  the  victor's  song. 
He  dieth  not  whose  knightly  presence  sways 

The  centuries  ;  whose  sword  and  speech  belong 
Unto  the  endless  future's  luminous  days. 
He  lives  for  aye  whose  purpose,  grand  and  tall, 

Beneath  the  love  of  millions  plants  its  root 

And  lifts  a  living  bloom  for  all  to  see — 
He  walks  with  heroes  through  a  splendid  hall ; 

The  tomb  is  but  a  dais  for  his  foot ; 
The  shroud  a  garment  for  his  jubilee  ! 

JOHN  CHARGES  FREMONT. 8 

Fremont,  whose  spirit  made  the  mountains  free  ; 
Tireless  explorer,  fierce  and  chivalrous  knight, 
Who  set  the  flag  on  many  a  gallant  height 

And  planted  it  beside  the  peaceful  sea  ; 

Path-cleaver  of  an  empire  yet  to  be, 

Who  sowed  a  desert  waste  with  blossoms  bright, 
And  sleepest  now  in  gardens  of  delight — 

Columbia  doffs  her  Phrygian  cap  to  thee, 

And  prays  that  thine  example  may  abound  ; 
That  other  sons,  in  wafting  thee  adieu, 

May  catch  thine  aspiration  free  and  strong, 

Climb  up  these  paths  till  other  heights  are  found, 
Forever  trim  thy  fragrant  torch  anew 

And  swell  through  endless  years  the  chorus  of  thy  song. 


36  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

LUCIUS   QUINTUS   ClNCINNATUS   IvAMAR.» 

Larnar  !  when  prescient  sponsors  bent  above 
Thy  cradle,  with  prophetic  eye  they  saw 
Thy  lines  of  fate  the  mystic  Parcae  draw 

In  Roman  symbols  :  energy  to  prove, 

Courage  to  dare,  and  eloquence  to  move, 
A  pulse  of  sympathy  and  hand  of  law, 
A  will  impliant  as  a  lion's  jaw 

And  heart  as  lissome  as  a  woman's  love. 

And  so  they  gave  thee  name  of  olden  time 
To  match  with  merits  of  an  age  outgrown, 

Fraught  with  suggestions  grand,  austere,  sublime  ; 
And  by  this  measure  be  thy  memory  known  : 

Errors  endemic  of  the  hour  and  clime, 

And  virtues  stern  and  high,  unique  and  all  thine  own 

THURI.OW  WEED.1" 

Untitlcd  Warwick  of  this  Western  land  ! 

Ruler  of  rulers  !  Priam  of  the  press  ! 

"  Dictator  "  swayed  by  such  unselfishness 
.That  others'  profit  thou  hast  ever  planned  ; 
O,  lend  the  presence  of  thy  prudent  hand 

Once  more  unto  our  councils  !  Let  us  feel 

The  glove  of  velvet  on  the  grip  of  steel 
As  when  the  legions  moved  at  thy  command. 
The  word  for  justice  spoken  never  dies, 
But  soars  and  sings  along  immortal  skies  ; 

So  shall  thy  self-forgetting  spirit  fall 

On  some  yoiing  athlete,  sinewy  and  tall, 
And  fill  him  with  the  noble  soul  that  cries  : 

"  Naught  for  myself,  but  for  my  country  all  !  " 


SEVEN  SONNETS.  37 

JUAREZ,  THE  DELIVERER.11 

The  gloTy  of  a  noble  race  art  thou  ! 

Law-giver,  soldier,  rebel,  refugee, 

The  love  of  Country  and  of  Liberty 
Shield  of  thy  breast  and  helmet  of  thy  brow  ! 
What  faith  upheld  that  lion-hearted  vow 

And  bound  thy  patriot  followers  to  thee 

Till  all  the  worn  and  harried  realm  was  free, 
Blccming  with  peace,  as  we  behold  it  now  ! 

Free  Mexico  records  thy  matchless  worth  ! 

Free  Mexico  salutes  thy  shining  brand  ! 
Free  Mexico,  exultant  in  thy  birth, 

Proud  of  the  courage  of  thy  conquering  hand, 
Crowns  thee,  in  presence  of  the  applauding  earth, 

The  second  savior  of  a  grateful  land  ! 

SAMUEly   BOWIES. 

Wise  journalist !  We  bow  before  thy  bier, 

And  touch  it  gently  as  it  passeth  by  ; 

We  reverently  mark  the  purpose  high 
That  shone  along  the  path  of  thy  career 
Making  all  lumin  ous  the  atmosphere  ! 

No  master's  collar  and  no  party's  chain 

For  love,  or  fear  of  loss,  or  hope  of  gain, 
Thou  ever  wore  thro  all  thy  journey  here. 

Thy  breath  is  gone,  thy  fluttering  pulse  is  still, 

But  thy  rich  life  is  only  just  begun  ; 
The  quick  seed  of  a  high  achievement  will 

Spring  up  and  blossom  on  from  sun  to  sun, 
And  bear  ambrosial  fruit  from  sea  to  sea — 
Oh,  this  is  Wisdom's  sweetest  immortality  ! 


38  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

THOMAS  SIMMS. 12 

The  mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly,  we  are  told  ; 

Oppression's  castle-walls  are  adamant, 

While  earthly  justice  is  a  century-plant 
Whose  royal  glories  languidly  unfold. 
Not  so,  O,  Thomas  Simms  !  thy  heart  must  hold 

Within  its  sunny  depths  a  happier  creed  ; 

Thou  hast  beheld  the  back  of  Bondage  bleed, 
The  hapless  children  from  their  mother  sold, 

And  suddenly,  as  by  a  bolt  from  heaven, 
The  huckster  smitten  down  upon  his  face, 

While  in  a  moment  all  the  chains  were  riven 

And  Freedom  bending  o'er  a  prostrate  race  ! 
O,  wondrous  sight  to  angels  and  to  men — 
The  leap  of  Simms  the  Slave  to  Simms  the  Citizen  ! 

COLD  WEATHER  OBSERVATIONS. 

Come,  meditative  Muse — fantastic  fay  ! 

Come,  rack  your  sconce  and  rake  your  tunes  together ; 
Get  up  and  rouse  yourself  without  delay — 
Let's  sing  the  weather  ! 

A  dozen  sorts  in  four  and  twenty  hours  ; 

December's  roof's  aleak,  and  dripping  from  it 
Is  snow  on  Bladensburg's  historic  towers, 
And  Oak  View's  summit. 

Hail,  snow-flakes,  snow-storms,  snowdrifts  heap  on  heap — 

Welcome  are  these,  though  slightly  incommodious ; 
Tender  thy  strain  in  midst  of  Winter  sleep 
Thou  snower  melodious  ! 

Now  blithe  lads  pelt  each  other  with  the  snow  ; 
Now  roses  deck  the  cheek  and  noses  tingle, 


GEORGE  B.   MCCI,EU,AN.  39 

And  warm  hearts  hide  beneath  the  buffalo, 
And  sleigh-bells  jingle. 

The  jolly  Wind  a-serenading  goes 

To  show  each  comely  damsel  what  he  kin  do, 
He  plays  on  his  catarrh  and  blows  his  snows 
Beneath  her  window. 

The  laggard  locomotive  plies  the  plow  ; 

The  festive  farmer  flourishes  the  shovel ; 
A  cloak  of  snow  masks  and  disguises  now 
Highway  and  hovel. 

Behold  the  ice  upon  Potomac  freeze, 

And  Billy  bellows  like  a  bull  of  Bashan 
When  he  falls  down  and  bumps  his  head  and  sees 
A  constellation. 

The  pipes  are  froze  !  No  water,  cold  or  hot ; 

And  often,  as  you  seldom  do  in  summer, 
You  seek  the  Sultan  of  the  Soldering-pot — 
The  opulent  plumber ! 

Later  !  It  thaws,  with  mercury  thirty -six  ! 

Ah,  well ;  although  the  freeze  is  rather  flimsy, 
No  Muse  is  hampered  by  the  weather's  tricks 
Or  Winter's  whimsey. 


GEORGE  B.  McCLELLAN 
ON  RECEIVING  AN  "  OVATION  "  AT  TRENTON,  N.  J.,  IN  1863. 

When  Little  Mac  from  sound  of  guns  retreated, 
What  cheap  applause  the  Jersey  welkin  shook  ! 

How  he  was  flattered,  glorified  and  greeted 
As  he  the  saddle  for  the  stump  forsook ! 

Pope  was  the  only  foe  he  e'er  defeated — 
Trenton  the  only  town  he  ever  took  ! 


40  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

A  NEW  YEAR  SUMMARY.^ 

Another  year  !  Another  year 
With  motley  promises  is  here. 
The  air  is  frigid  and  severe, 
And  on  the  frozen  lakes  appear 
The  skaters  filled  \vith  merry  cheer 
And  eke  with  beer. 

The  poplars  drop  their  dead  leaves  sere 
That  drift  and  drown  within  the  mere  ; 
The  chimney,  like  a  grenadier, 
Struts  o'er  the  roof-top  to  uprear 
Its  smoky  banner  in  the  clear 
Cerulean  winter  atmosphere. 
The  Czar  is  acting  very  queer  ; 
With  warlike  front  and  mien  austere, 
Marking  his  will  to  domineer, 
He  slyly  builds  the  privateer, 
He  trains  the  Cossack  canoneer 
And  bids  the  Balkan  mountaineer 
To  watch  the  Austrian  frontier 
And  grind  his  spear. 

King  William  watches  his  career, 
Addresses  him  as  "  cousin  chere," 
And  hopes  that  ere  the  world  shall  hear 
The  tumult  of  the  combat  drear, 
Some  friendly  neighbor,  strong  and  near, 
Will  interfere. 

See  England's  paralyzed  Premier  ! 
Yonder  the  Slavic  chanticleer, 
Hither  the  Celtic  mutineer, 
And  Churchill  ceases  to  cohere, 
Abandoning  his  charioteer  ; 


A   NEW  YEAR  SUMMARY.  41 

While  every  human  eye  and  ear 
Watches  the  fray  with  doubt  and  fear 
And  hope  sincere. 

Ah  !  Listen  to  the  poet-peer 
With  his  reactionary  sneer 
Embellished  with  the  Locksley  leer  ; 
He  on  the  phantom  burial  bier 
Of  the  false  future  drops  a  tear, 
Forgetting  all  the  Muse's  sphere, 
Forgetting  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 
Forgetting  Arthur's  cavalier. 
And  Arden  true  and  Dora  dear, 
And  Time,  of  all  tellural  gear 
The  auctioneer. 

Come  bach,  O  Muse,  and  reappear 
In  Washington.     The  name  revere  ! 
The  air  is  frigid  and  severe, 
As  down  Life's  corridors  we  steer, 
While  for  us  all  is  new  born  here 
Another  year ! 

PENSIVE. 

She  leant  on  his  arm  by  the  wicker-gate, 

On  Q  street  WTest,  when  the  moon  was  low, 
And  looked  in  his  face  with  the  eyes  of  fate 

And  a  smile  that  only  angels  know. 
He  drew  her  close  with  his  clasping  arm, 

And  wondered  what  her  trouble  could  be  ; 
His  bosom  heaved  with  a  wild  alarm, 

"  What  is  it,  my  darling  ?  "  murmured  he. 
"  My  sweet !  "  said  she, 
"  It  seems  to  me 
I  kinder  smell  an  ailanthus  tree." 


42  THE   PROPHECY   AND  OTHER  POEM6. 

LIBERTY  YEARNING  TO  LIGHT  THE  WORLDS 

Down  New  York  Bay  I  swiftly  passed 
Where  o'er  me  loomed  a  column  vast, 
From  heel  to  head  a  mighty  span, 
In  stature  most  Gargantuan. 
'Twas  Liberty's  colossal  bride 
That  watched  above  the  heaving  tide. 
Darkness  around  ;  her  giant  hand 
Thrust  upward  an  unkindled  brand. 
Her  eye  glanced  o'er  the  darkling  path  ; 
Her  cheek  of  bronze  was  red  with  wrath  ; 
Her  shining  peplum  heaved  with  scorn 
And  pity  for  a  land  forsworn. 
Her  parted  lips — see  !  see  !  she  speaks  ! 
Her  voice  in  angry  thunder  breaks, 
And  rings  along  the  starless  night ; 
"  Give  us  a  light!" 

So  now,  each  night,  as  sailors  range, 
The  sights  and  sounds  are  goblin  strange  ; 
Her  angry  foot  the  island  shakes  ; 
With  wounded  pride  her  bosom  quakes  ; 
And  down  her  night-enchanted  face 
The  tears  of  rage  each  other  chase. 
She  shouts  aloud  and  shakes  on  high 
Her  empty  torch  against  the  sky, 
And  sends  adown  the  darkened  Bay 
A  stormy  growl  that  seems  to  say  : 
"  Ho  !  Opulent  city  out  of  sight, 
From  Battery  Place  to  Harlem's  Height, 
Arouse  !  And  make  my  beacon  bright 
To  banish  all  the  murky  night — 
"  Give  us  a  light!  " 


ONLY  YESTERDAY.  43 


YESTERDAY. 
READ  AT  MY  SISTER'S  SILVER  WEDDING. 

The  world  is  full  of  miracles  :  for  only  yesterday 

I  dwelt  next  door,  not  thirty  years  ago,  as  others  say. 

'Twas  yesterday  I  went  and  came  and  drove  the  plow  afield, 

And  stowed  into  the  bursting  barn  the  meadow's  fragrant 

yield. 

'Twas  yesterday  I  dwelt  next  door,  scarce  thirty  days  ago, 
And  yoked  the  brindle  steers  and  heard  the  lonesome  cattle 

low, 

And  down  into  the  corner  lot  I  took  my  scythe  to  mow. 
I  loved  to  lean  upon  the  snath  when  father  was  away, 
And  always  heard  the  dinner  horn  —  'twas  only  yesterday. 

'Twas  yesterday  we  all  lived  there,  beyond  the  Ditches  —  thus 
Old  Time,  the  nimble  wizard,  comes  and  plays  his  tricks  with 

us. 

I  saw  the  babbling  Wepawaug  dance  seaward  with  its  song, 
Aud  heard  the  mill-wheel  groaning  and  droning  all  day  long. 
How  Uncle  Zeri  went  and  came,  a  phantom  clad  in  white, 
And  how  we  watched  the  hopper  in  its  ague  of  delight, 
And  how  the  buckets  climbed  and  fell  like  many  a  wayward 

sprite  ! 
And  how  I  hooked  the  neighbor's  pears  ;  and  how,  without 

delay, 
That  neighbor  set  his  dog  on  me  —  'twas  only  yesterday. 

Beneath  the  stately  elm's  green  arch  I  swung  the  laughing 

girls, 

And  caught  my  boyish  fancy  in  the  meshes  of  their  curls  ; 
I  saw  them  in  their  Sunday  seats  across  the  gallery  wide, 
In  Sunday  garb  complacent  on  the  church's  starboard  side  ; 
And   one  —  her  cheeks  were  rosy  and  her  eyes  a  heavenly 

blue— 


44  THE   PROPHECY   AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


She  led  me  down  a  forest  path  and  showed  me  in  the  dew 
Where  spicy  wintergreen  and  jeweled  checkerberries  grew. 
I  kissed  her  once,  or  twice,  perhaps,  or  thrice,  —  what's  that 

you  say  ? 
"  She's  now  grandmother  "  ?    Nonsense  !    Why,  'twas  only 

yesterday. 

'Twas  yesterday  the  bees  came  forth  to  feel  the  sunshine 

warm, 

Sent  out  their  reconnoitering  queen  and  followed  in  a  swarm 
And  this  same  girl  we  meet  to-night  who  wears  her  silver 

crown, 

Excited,  ran  with  clanging  pan  to  call  the  truants  down. 
'Twas  yesterday  I  drove  the  cows  from  meadows  where  they 

fed— 

The  moolies  of  a  devious  breed  and  Devons  dappled  red, 
And  stooped  to  milk  the  heifer  that  we  bought  of  Uncle  Jed. 
I  knew  that  she  was  young  and  proud,  but  not  that  she  was 

gay, 

Till  I  heels  over  head  was  kicked  —  'twas  only  yesterday. 

And  yesterday,  O,  how  we  planned  the  parties  for  the  Shore, 
And  packed  the  picnic  baskets  high  with  eatables  galore  ! 
The  balmy  bath,  the  sportive  game,  the  romp  beneath  the 

trees, 
The   bouyant  sail  upon  the  Sound   before  the  quickening 

breeze, 

The  song,  the  dance,  the  merry  jest,  the  banter  and  replies, 
And,   O,   the  havoc   that  we   made   with   mother's  chicken 

pies  — 

I  see  the  dear  one  now  with  tears  of  laughter  in  her  eyes  ! 
Her  hand  was  always  ready  and  her  heart  was  always  May, 
And  young  as  any  in  our  sports  —  'twas  only  yesterday. 


GUY  FAWKES,  WII,KES  BOOTH,  THOMASSEN.  45 

Those  jolly  times,  the  sewing-bees,  the  forfeit  to  the  miss, 

The  ride  to  Copenhagen  on  the  bridging  of  a  kiss, 

Where  oats,  peas,  beans  and  barley  grew  for  every  Jack  and 

Jill, 

"  Open  the  ring  and  choose  one  in  !  "  I  hear  the  music  still. 
Since  then,  what  pain  and  pleasure  blent !  what  tangled  joy 

and  woe ! 
What  gains  and  losses !  And,  alas,  what  inward  tears  that 

flow! 

Thinking  of  them,  it  may  have  been — we'll  say,  a  year  ago. 
But  father,  sitting  here  serene,  still  ready  for  the  play, 
Though  labeled  86,  proclaims  'twas  only  yesterday. 

I  often  took  her  by  the  hand — my  little  sister  here, 

And  led  her  off  to  school  each  morn  throughout  the  changing 

year. 
I  taught  her  how  to  make  mud-pies.     I  brought  the  robin's 

nest, 
And  marked  the  trees  along  the  road  whose  apples  were  the 

best. 

At  last,  when  I  resigned  the  charge,  'twas  not  a  week  before 
They  said  another  chap  (it  was  the  same  old  tale  of  yore), 
Had  taken  up  the  vacant  hand — the  boy  that  lived  next  door. 
And  here  to-night  I  look  across  their  big  boy's  head  and  say, 
"  I  care  not  for  these  pranks  of  time — 'twas  only  yesterday  !  " 

GUY  FAWKES,  WILKES  BOOTH,  THOMASSEN. 

Three  miscreants  in  three  distant  countries  born, 

England,  Virginia,  Prussia,  did  adorn  : 

The  first  in  appetite  for  blood  surpassed, 

The  next  in  perfidy,  in  both  the  last. 

To  shape  the  .third  did  Nature's  self  undo — 

She  broke  the  mould  that  formed  the  other  two. 


46  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  PEROT'S 

In  the  great  lake,  Pe-ton-bon-que, 
Ou  the  long  and  slender  island, — 
On  the  island,  Goo-ray-un-tee, — 
To  the  Iroquois  the  gateway, 
Ruling  all  the  Huron  empire 
Dwelt  Maquam,  the  mighty  chieftain. 

Dwelt  Maquam  in  savage  splendor. 
All  the  nations  paid  him  homage 
From  the  eastern  hills  of  azure 
To  the  far-off  flaming  sunset — 
From  the  northern  seas  of  crystal 
To  the  wilderness  of  roses 
Where  the  bloody  river  tinkles, 
Flinging  chimes  of  mellow  music 
Round  the  red  Che-on-der-o-ga. 

Now  the  island  rang  with  laughter. 
All  the  warriors  made  merry  ; 
All  the  squaws,  with  joyous  clamor, 
Tighter  clasped  the  brown  papooses  ; 
All  the  wigwams  flamed  with  color 
Like  the  maples  in  the  corn-time  ; 
All  the  white  canoes  went  flying 
Like  the  gulls  across  the  water  ; 
All  the  children  trimmed  their  girdles 
With  the  feathery  willow  catkins 
And  around  the  King  they  galloped 
Pounding  on  their  drums  of  deer-skin,, 

For  a  century's  war  was  ended. 
Peace  had  come  to  Petonbonque. 
He,  the  great  Maquam,  had  said  it ; 


THE  I,EGEND  OF  PEROT'S  BAY.  47 

With  the  foes  his  father's  father 
Learned  to  hate  and  loved  to  vanquish 
He  had  smoked  the  pipe  of  friendship, 
And  the  bloody  hatchet  buried 
Near  the  Mohawk's  granite  altar. 

And  the  kings,  in  solemn  council, 
Had  arranged  a  royal  wedding  : 
Scion  of  the  daring  Mohawk 
To  the  daughter  of  the  Huron — 
Thus  to  live  in  peace  thereafter. 
"  Father  !  "  said  the  Huron  maiden, 
"  That  thy  royal  word  be  honored, 
And  no  more  thy  people  perish, 
Go  I  with  the  Mohawk  warrior." 

Then,  communing  with  the  Spirit, 
Strode  Maquam  into  the  forest, 
Over  stream  and  meadow  seeking 
Ta-ron  Hi-a-wa-gan  mighty — 
God  of  all  the  Huron  nation. 
Hiawagan  pitched  his  wigwam 
On  the  fleecy  clouds  of  morning, 
And  he  trailed  his  silken  banners 
From  the  battlements  of  sunset. 
He  had  made  the  lake  and  forest ; 
Made  the  caribou  and  pickerel ; 
Made  the  Iroquois  and  Huron  ; 
Made  the  sky-aspiring  eagles — 
Taught  them  how  to  find  his  wigwam. 
He  could  summon  want  or  plenty — 
Bring  calamity  or  blessing. 
So  the  King  in  meekness  sought  him  : 
"O,  thou  dread  and  awful  Spirit, 


48  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Give  the  Hurons  now  thy  promise  ! 
Vouch  their  Sagamore  a  token  ! 
Send  us  Yos-ke-ha,  the  Doer, 
Answerer  of  supplications, 
Yoskeha,  thine  only  grandson, 
That  he  may,  because  he  loves  us, 
Just  within  our  happy  island 
Fashion  for  my  daughter's  dowry 
From  the  lake,  a  dainty  lakelet, 
Fairest  he  has  e'er  created  ; 
Bluer  than  the  kindled  sapphire  ; 
With  a  beach  of  shining  pebbles 
And  a  breath  of  balm  and  balsam, 
Where  the  trees  exhale  sweet  odors, 
Where  the  water-lilies  blossom, 
Where  the  fawns  confiding  wander, 
Where  the  fish  are  fair  and  plenty, 
And  the  summer  hath  no  fervors, 
That  the  Mohawks,  when  they  see  it, 
Shall  exclaim,  "  a  bower  of  beauty  ! 
Taran  Hiawagan  planned  it — 
Yoskeha,  the  Doer,  made  it, — 
Witness  how  they  love  the  Hurons  !  " 

Straight  the  chieftain's  prayer  was  answered. 

Yoskeha  bent  calmly  earthward, 
Softly  drew  his  middle  finger 
Down  the  island,  Goorayuntee — 
Down  the  side  that  sees  the  sun  set. 
All  the  trees  and  rocks  were  skyward 
Flung  before  the  touch  colossal. 
All  the  deer  stood  still  and  shivered. 
All  the  fish  in  Petonbonque 


THE   LEGEND  OF  PEROT'S  BAY.  49 

Leaped  into  the  air  in  terror, 
As  the  lake,  become  responsive 
Under  Yoskeha's  caresses, 
Poured  its  cooling  waters  inland. 

When  the  god,  his  hand  withdrawing, 
Calmed  the  sea  and  stilled  the  tempest, 
There  remained  the  slaty  fragments 
On  a  slender  tongue  of  sea-grass 
At  the  basin's  shining  entrance, 
Washed  by  all  the  cooling  billows, 
Fanned  by  all  the  cooling  breezes, — 
Scarce  a  span  it  was  across  it. 
Great  Maquam,  when  he  beheld  it, 
Shouted  in  a  voice  of  thunder  : 
"  Now  give  thanks  to  Hiawagan 
And  his  well  beloved  grandson — 
Yoskeha,  the  mighty  Doer  ! 
Bigger  gods  than  Minabozho — 
Bigger  gods  than  all  the  pygmies 
That  the  Pequots  have  to  pray  to  !  " 
And  the  voice  of  thunder  sounded 
From  the  lake  to  where  the  sun  sets. 

On  the  slender  tongue  of  sea-grass 
By  the  basin's  shining  entrance 
There  the  Mohawk  pitched  his  wigwam  ; 
There  the  princess  wove  her  wampum, 
Ground  her  samp  and  rocked  the  babies, 
And  the  King,  his  people  happy, 
Came  and  slumbered  by  the  doorway  : 
Slumbered,  dreaming  of  the  future — 
Dreaming  of  the  dreaded  pale  face, 
Of  the  wondrous  wooden  wigwams, 


50  THE   PROPHECY  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

On  the  slender  tongue  of  sea-grass, 
And  canoes  that  smoked  and  bellowed, 
Flying  down  the  lake  like  swallows 
Churning  it  to  foamy  laughter. 
"  War  is  done  !  "  they  heard  him  murmur. 
And  they  saw  a  great  white  eagle, 
Poising  ever,  resting  never, 
Soaring  over  Petonbonque. 


COMPENSATION. 

CITIZEN  : 

Who's  dead,  good  sexton  ?    Why  those  chimes 
You've  struck  the  bell  a  hundred  times ! 

SEXTON : 

Puir  rnon  !  puir  mon  !  the  church's  pillar — 
None  else  than  Peter  Grist,  the  miller. 

CITIZEN  : 

Not  Peter  !  Then  your  bell  is  wrong 
•He  was  but  fifty.     For  as  long 
As  I  have  lived  I  always  knew 
How  old  he  was,  and — 

SEXTON : 

Yes,  'tis  true  ; 

But,  dear,  in  ringin'  him  awa' 
I  gav'  him  more  than  was  the  law  ; 
'Twill  please  him,  for  the  goody  soul 
Was  fond  of  takin'  dooble  toll. 


Deem  that  day  gained  whose  low-descending  sun 
Sees  at  thy  hand  no  scaly  action  done. 


THE  HAUNTED  I<AKE  AT  COOPERSTOWN.  5! 

THE  HAUNTED  LAKE  AT  COOPERSTOWN.16 

The  sunsst  trails  across  the  wave 
The  shadow  of  the  violet  hills, 
And  where  the  shining  bowl  outspills 

The  largess  that  the  mountains  gave, 
An  unseen  Presence  all  the  purple  twilight  fills. 

I  walk  beside  the  haunted  lake  ; 

I  listen  to  its  whispering  shore  ; 

I  softly  dip  an  elfin  oar 
And  float  away,  where  phantoms  wake 
The  consciousness  of  night  along  the  rippling  floor. 

Through  deepening  dusk  the  day  has  fled  ; 
Beside  my  skiff  a  ghostly  bark 
Drifts  suddenly  athwart  the  dark, 
A  goblin  sail  flaps  overhead — 
They've  come  again  to-night — old  Hutter  and  his  ark  ! 

I  hear  a  sob  along  the  wave  ; 

'Tis  Hetty's  spirit,  uuconsoled, 

Still  hovering,  sadly,  as  of  old, 
Where,  growing  from  her  mother's  grave, 
A  lily-stem  stands  mute,  and  lifts  a  crown  of  gold. 

The  rippling  laugh  of  Wah-ta-wah 
Floats  over,  and  her  lover  proud 
Sings  to  the  maid  his  song,  aloud  ; 
I  hasten  to  the  trysting — ah  ! 
Too  late  !  An  eagle's  scream  drops  downward  from  a  cloud  ! 

I  know  that  up  yon  gloomy  hill 
Young  Judith  lingers,  fair  and  sad, 
While  Natty  Bumpo,  mountain-clad, 
Leans  on  his  trusty  rifle  still 
And  scans  the  scene  unmoved, — a  forest  Galahad. 


52          THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  gathering  thunder  cloud  a  veil 
O'er  Leatherstocking's  cave  has  hung, 
But  where  the  gorge  yawns  black  among 

The  highest  pines,  a  thrilling  wail 
Floats  out  upon  the  tide — the  dirge  the  Mingoes  sung. 

Their  camp-fire  twinkles  in  the  trees  : 

Otsego  rock  'tis  blazing  nigh  ; 

The  dirge  becomes  a  battle-cry 
Of  fury  on  the  awakened  breeze  ; 
A  Huron  yells  and  swings  a  bloody  scalp  on  high  ! 

A  hundred  spectral  fancies  start ; 
A  hundred  eerie  voices  wake 
At  thy  command  in  bush  and  brake, 
O,  Master  of  the  magic  art 
Whose  wand  has  wrought  the  spell — O,  Wizard  of  the  Lake. 


SENSITIVENESS. 

"  How  are  you,  Johnny  Jones,  my  friend  ? 

And  so  you're  spliced,  my  boy !  " 
I  slapped  him  cordially  and  cried, 

"  Old  Jack  !  I  wish  you  joy ! " 

I  never  saw  a  man  so  mad  ; 

He  stamped  upon  the  ground, 
And  talked  swear-words  and  danced  and  writhed 

And  twisted  round  and  round. 

I  turned  to  run,  when  he  remarked 

To  quiet  my  alarm, 
"  O,  Jim  !  I'm  vaccinated  there — 

Don't  touch  me  on  that  arm  1 " 


FRIAR  OF  CAMPOBEU/).  53 

THE  FRIAR  OF  CAMPOBELLO.17 

I  will  tell  you  whence  the  Friar  came, 

Standing  sentinel  at  Campobello. 
Sad  tale  !  Father's  mother  heard  the  same 

From  an  Openango,  bent  and  yellow, — 

Grizzled  dame  ! 
I  will  tell  you  whence  the  Friar  came. 

Long  ago — a  thousand  moons  and  more, — 
Old  Bashawba,  dwelling  on  the  highland 

Just  above  the  cliff,  from  shore  to  shore 

Ruled  the  fortunes  of  the  cool,  green  island — 
Hearth  and  store — 

Long  ago — a  thousand  moons  and  more. 

All  his  wigwam-empire,  like  a  king — 
Isles  of  Cobscook  and  canoes  of  Quoddy — 

He  encompassed  in  his  magic  ring  ; 
Masterful,  nor  fearing  anybody, 
Governing 

All  his  wigwam-empire  like  a  king. 

Proud  and  cruel  Sagamore  was  he, 
But  he  cherished  there  his  only  daughter  ; 

She  was  sweeter  than  the  balsam  tree, 
Fairer  than  the  moon  upou  the  water — 
Nicassee ! — 

Proud  and  cruel  Sagamore  was  he. 

As  she  saw  her  image  in  the  tide, 

And  discerned  that  she  was  tall  and  stately, 

She,  so  lithe  of  limb  and  gentle  eyed, 

Dreamed  about  the  youth  who  stole  so  lately 
To  her  side, 

As  she  saw  her  image  in  the  tide. 


54  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Micmac  youth  from  Acadie  afar, 
Stalwart,  graceful,  bold,  audacious  lover  ; 

Borne  in  Neptune's  fragile  birchen  car, 
Nicassee's  bright  eyes  had  drawn  him  over 
Like  a  star — 

Micmac  youth  from  Acadie  afar. 

"  Father,"  she  had  pleaded,  "  he  is  mine  ; 

When  I  saw  him  first  I  knew  his  mission  ; 
All  his  friends  and  kinfolk  shall  be  thine — 

War  shall  end  in  granting  Love's  petition  ; 

Heed  the  sign ! 
Father,"  she  had  pleaded,  "  he  is  mine  !  " 

Thus  the  haughty  Sagamore's  reply  : 
"  Micmac  eagle  has  a  daring  pinion, 

But  a  wicked  claw  and  cruel  eye  ; 
If  he  fly  again  to  my  dominion, 
He  shall  die  !  " 

Thus  the  haughty  Sagamore's  reply. 

Now  she  watches,  leaning  o'er  the  wave  : 
Watches  keen  and  like  a  partridge  listens  ; 

Nothing  seen  upon  the  water  save 

Where  a  paddle  in  the  moonlight  glistens. 
'Tis  her  brave  ! 

Now  she  watches,  leaning  o'er  the  wave. 

When  they  meet  with  eager  clasp  of  hand 
Pledging  each  to  each  to  love  forever, 

Old  Bashawba.  sleeping  on  the  sand, 
Wakes  and,  yelling,  springs  with  bow  and  quiver 
To  the  strand, 

When  they  meet  with  eager  clasp  of  hand. 


FRIAR  OF  CAMPOBEIJ<O.  55 

Drawing  angry  weapon  to  the  head 

Stands  the  Sagamore  in  wrathful  sorrow, 

"  King  and  sire  !  "  cries  Nicassee,  "  instead 
Of  the  Micmac,  give  my  heart  the  arrow  !  " 
Hate  is  sped 

Drawing  angry  weapon^  to  the  head. 

Then  turns  Nicassee  to  Heaven  in  prayer — 

"  Good  Sazoos  !  O  witness  our  affection  ! 
Make  the  shaft  fall  harmless  on  the  air  ! 

Grant,  Oh,  grant  the  Micmac  thy  protection  !  " 

Kneeling  there 
Then  turns  Nicassee  to  Heaven  in  prayer. 

Morning  came,  and  what  a  sight  was  shown  ! 

Good  Sazoos,  the  god  who  rules  the  planet, 
Had  in  mercy  heard  the  maiden's  moan 

And  the  cruel  chief  was  turned  to  granite — 

Struck  to  stone ! 
Morning  came,  and  what  a  sight  was  shown  ! 

I  have  told  you  whence  the  Friar  came, 

Standing  sentinel  at  Campobello  ; 
Hermits  pale  have  changed  the  sounding  name 

From  the  Openango,  strong  and  mellow, — 

Yet  the  same  ! 
I  have  told  you  whence  the  Friar  came. 


-it- 


Said  a  great  Congregational  preacher 
To  a  hen  "  You're  a  beautiful  creature  ! 
The  fowl,  just  for  that, 
I^aid  two  eggs  in  his  hat, — 
And  thus  did  the  Hen -re-ward  Beecher. 


56  THIS  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

THANKSGIVING. 

What  a  din  and  a  discord  is  Thanksgiving  Day 

With  its  preaching  and  pudding,  its  pottage  and  play  ; 

Its  country  reunions  anear  and  afar 

Afoot  and  a-horseback,  by  carriage  and  car, 

The  trader  and  farmer,  mechanic  and  tar, 

Whoever  the  wandering  prodigals  are  ; 

The  lean  and  the  brawny,  the  blind  and  the  lame, 

To  eat  chicken-pie  and  give  thanks  for  the  same  ! 

Pack  baggage  and  go  to  bed  early  to-night 
Resolved  to  turn  out  at  the  first  peep  of  light, 
Then  rise  before  dawn  with  a  cold  in  your  head 
And  scold  at  the  servant  and  grumble  at  Fred  ; 
Since  midnight  all  sleep  from  your  pillow  has  fled 
For  the  baby  has  scattered  its  crumbs  in  the  bed  ; 
Then  rush  to  the  depot— while  children  all  lag— 
With  trunk,  parcel,  band-box,  umbrella  and  bag. 

"  All  aboard  !  "  There  !  Matilda's  lost  one  of  her  shoes  ! 
But  Bob  has  the  bird-cage  and  Ma  has  the  blues, 
And  Jane  has  the  mumps  and  Jerusha  has  fear 
That  something  is  certainly  left  in  the  rear  ; 
And  the  baby  has  fun,  for  the  sweet  little  dear 
Drops  its  hat  out  the  window  and  plums  in  its  ear. 
And  Pa  growls — (the  tickets  are  under  his  foot,) 
"  Dear  Suzz !  I  do  wonder  where  them  has  been  put !  " 

To  church  !  How  the  preacher  expands  with  his  theme 

As  the  old  deacon  curls  in  his  corner  to  dream. 

To  the  table  !  Now  grandfather  murmurs  a  grace 

Preceding  the  great  Epicurean  race, 

Then  turkeys  and  pigs  disappear  in  their  place 

And  puddings  reflect  in  each  satisfied  face  ! 


THE  STORY  OF  CAPE  DESPAIR.  57 

Till  baby  has  butter  on  four  of  its  toes 

And  the  drip  of  a  wing  has  anointed  its  nose. 

O,  day  of  our  days  !  Of  our  system  the  sun  ! 

Thou  grim  consecration  of  Yankeefied  fun  ! 

The  prayer  of  the  Scotch  o'er  the  dish  of  the  Dutch. 

Thy  pilgrims  repent  if  they  dine  overmuch. 

O,  long  may  thy  worshipful  devotees  come 

From  east  and  from  west  and  where'er  they  may  roam 

To  a  tenderer  call  than  the  roll  of  the  drum 

And  blest  be  the  hurry  of  prodigals  home  ! 

And  blest  be  the  clamor  of  children  at  play  ! 

And  blest  be  the  hubbub  of  Thanksgiving  Day  ! 

THE  STORY  OF  CAPE  DESPAIR.^ 

vSkipper,  beware  !  On  the  starboard  bow 

A  sharp  cliff  juts  from  the  misty  shore 
And  flings  its  foam  from  an  angry  prow ; 

Cape  Hope  (D'Espoir)  is  the  name  it  bore, 
But  Cape  Despair  they  call  it  now 

For  the  tragedy  wrought  of  yore. 

Nigh  two  centuries  since  Queen  Anne 

Sent  her  armada  to  storm  Quebec — 
Scores  of  ships  and  thousands  of  men  ; 

And  she  cried  to  Sir  Hovenden  on  the  deck, 
"  Take  it  or  never  show  face  again  ! — 
Take  it  or  drive  to  wreck  !  " 

He  swept  the  sea  and  he  paused  to  rest 

Where  Pictou  shines  by  the  dancing  wave  ; 

That  eve  their  prettiest  maid  and  best 
The  Acadians  unto  her  lover  gave — 

A  spousal  at  Hymen's  high  behest — 
The  lovely  wedding  the  brave. 


5$  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

"  Debark  and  get  thee  a  goodly  sight !  " 
The  tempting  whisper  of  Satan  ran, 

"  A  woodland  nymph  in  her  beauty  dight 
Will  go,  mayhap,  with  the  strongest  man  ; 

'Twere  fitter  she  wedded  a  gallant  knight 
Of  the  royal  I/ady  Anne  !  " 

As  the  maiden  knelt,  with  trembling  lip, 
In  robe  of  white  at  her  lover's  side, 

The  Admiral  seized  her  with  ruffian  grip 
And  unto  the  struggling  captive  cried 

As  he  dragged  her  back  to  the  waiting  ship, 
"Now  you're  a  sailor's  bride  !  " 

Northward  Sir  Hovenden  made  full  sail, 
But  down  from  Labrador's  darkened  coast 

The  Storm-king  sent  bim  a  frozen  gale 
And  the  fleet  on  Cape  D'Espoir  was  tossed  ; 

From  the  rueful  wreck  there  rose  a  wail — 
The  wail  of  a  countless  host. 

And  now,  when  the  moon  is  drowned  in  clouds, 
A  ghost-ship  drives  through  the  blinding  storm 

Her  deck  is  alive  with  clamorous  crowds, 
And  out  of  the  midst  of  the  mad  alarm 

An  officer  leans  from  the  larboard  shrouds 
With  a  dead  girl  on  his  arm. 

Yes,  dead,  I  say,  in  a  robe  of  white  ; 

And  oft  the  Admiral's  signal  gun 
Is  heard  ashore  in  the  dead  of  night 

When  the  ghost-ship  over  the  reef  has  run, 
And  the  girl's  eyes  glow  with  a  fiery  light 
As  the  ship  goes  dancing  on  ! 


ON   RETIRING  FROM  OFFICE.  59 

O,  skipper  !  I  speak  the  truth.     Beware  ! 

I  see  her  face  from  the  misty  shore. 
I  hear  ascend  through  the  midnight  air 

A  wailing  above  the  tempest's  roar  ; 
"  Cape  Hope  "  no  longer,  but  "  Cape  Despair  " 
For  the  tragedy  wrought  of  yore. 


ON  RETIRING  FROM  OFFICE. 

SOME    REMARKS    TO  DAME    COLUMBIA  ON    DECLINING  A 
RENOMINATION. 

Thanks,  Madam  ! — but  excuse  me  ! 

You  are  very  kind  to  choose  me  ; 
You  are  very  good  to  say  I've  served  with  honesty  and  zeal ; 

And  I  say  that  same  myself — 

I'm  no  raker  up  of  pelf 
And  I've  tried  to  do  my  duty  by  the  ancient  commonweal. 

Politicians  come  to  sound  me, 
But  'tis  pleasant  to  be  free 

And  have  loving  friends  around  me — 
No  more  offices  for  me  ! 

Why,  Madam,  I  was  candid  ; 
I  was  rather  open-handed, 

And  I  thought  that  I  was  honest  when  I  got  the  people's 
vote  ; 

But  the  papers  called  me  "  jobber  " 
"  Boodle  snatcher,"  "  villain,"  "  robber  " 
And  other  playful  epithets  too  numerous  to  note. 
O,  of  course,  "  mere  party  capers," 

But  'tis  better  to  be  free 
From  these  funny  morning  papers — 
No  more  offices  for  me  ! 


60  THE  PROPHECY   AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

They  exposed  my  "  evil  nature  ;  " 

I  had  bribed  the  Legislature  ; 
I  was  rotten  with  corruption  ;  I  had  sold  my  vote  for  lust ; 

Homeless  orphans  helpless  wandered 

Whose  small  legacy  I'd  squandered — 
The  first  I  ever  heard  about  the  orphans  or  the  trust. 

Nonsense,  Madam  !  You'll  not  miss  me. 
And  'tis  sweeter  to  be  free 

With  my  little  girl  to  kiss  me — 
No  more  offices  for  me  ! 

Madam,  hear  me  !  I  could  stand  it 
To  be  called  a  thief  and  bandit ; 
But  blows  I'm  callous  to  have  hit  my  family  a  rap. 

Maud  ran  home  from  school  and  found  me, 
And  she  flung  her  arms  around  me, 

.\nd  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break — her  head  upon  my 
lap — 

She  had  "  heard  about  the  papers." 

Ah  !  Hereafter  I'll  be  free 
With  my  children  and  their  capers — 
No  more  offices  for  me  ! 


THK  BALANCE  OP  RIGHTS. 

That  bill  of  Wright's  before  the  Legislature 
Would  give  the  ballot  to  "  that  lovely  creature," 
But  Croker  shouts  "  It's  violence  to  Nature  ! 
What  right  has  woman,  safe  from  war's  alarms, 
To  cast  a  ballot  when  she  can't  bear  arms  ?  " 
"  For  shame  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Hough  in  lofty  dudgeon, 
"  For  shame  !  Go  to  !  Get  out,  you  old  curmudgeon  ! 
What  right  have  you,  with  all  your  talk  bewilderin', 
To  cast  a  ballot  when  you  can't  bear  children  ?  " 


THE  FUGITIVES  OF  PENOBSCOT.  6l 

THE  FUGITIVES  OF  PENOBSCOT. 

OR  THE  SLAVES  OF  HYMEN. 
AIR  :  "A  model  Major  General." 

I  live  in  Maine  when  I'm  to  home,  not  very  fur  from  An- 

dover. 
And  so  did  Nancy  Hock  when  first  I  went  to  seek  the  hand  of 

'er. 

I  seen  'er  at  a  huskin'  bee  they  hed  at  I/ittle  Scuppineau  ; 
It  knocked  me  flat  to  look  at  'er, — I  could  'er  et  'er  up,  I 

know. 
But  w'en  I  popped  the  question  there  an'  took  'er  off  to 

marry  'er, 

Her  father  didn't  understand  an'  chased  us  with  the  tarrier. 
"  Consarn  a  license  !  "    I  hed  said  ;    "  Why,  darn  the  darned 

formality !  " 

But  now  I  found  we  needed  it  to  give  the  splice  legality, 
And  so,  with  buck-board  kinder  slim,  and  aspect  kinder 

sinister, 

I — a — ummmm — oh,  yes  ! 
We  ransacked  Maine  from  stem  to  stern  to  find  a  willin* 

minister. 

O,  what  an  opportunity  the  exigency  did  afford 
The  priests  of  Cheputnaticook  and  dominies  of  Biddeford  ! 
At  Macnaquack  and  Alligash,  Sebasticook  and  Kennebunk. 
My  Nancy  hed  a  dollar  bed,  but  I  was  minus  any  bunk, 
No  parson,  even  for  a  fee,  would  listen  to  romantic  us, 
At  old  Aroostook,  Kennebec,  Peru  or  Agamenticus 
At  I/ake  Mooselucmaguntic,  Chattaquan  and  Passadumkeag, 
Umbagog  and  Cancomgamoc  as  far  as  Mattawumkeag. 
A  Quaker  shook  his  head  and  said  "  Thou'rt  lucky  if  thou 
winnest  her," 


62  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

And — I — a — ummnim — oh,  yes  ! 

And  then  we  cut  adrift  again  and  moseyed  for  a  minister  ! 

We  pleaded  with  her  relatives  at  Wallagosaquegamook, 
At  Pataquangomis,  Squaw  Lake,  Piscatequis  and  Peggamook, 
AtSyslodobsis,Schoodic,Squam,atMooseandMoteseniock, — 
No  hospitality  we  found — no  help,  alas  !  from  any  Hock. 
The  erring  father  just  behind,  we  westward  fled  from  Amity 
Avoiding  an  encounter  that  might  prove  a  great  calamity  ; 
To  Medybemps  and  Pemaguid,  to  Ouohog  and  Pamgocamock 
To  old  Chimquassibamtook's  beach,  and   Skogatunkasoca- 

mock. 
Fled   westward,  steering  clear  of  all   her  unrelenting  kin 

astir, 

And — I — a — ummmm — oh,  yes  ! 
We  made  a  pilgrimage  of  Maine,  a  huntin'  for  a  minister. 

Along  the  Molechuukamuuk,  around  the  wild  Bascanhegun, 
'Twas  huckleberries  saved  our  lives,  for  ah !   I  hadn't  any 

gun; 
Through  Chesuncook  and  Carritunk,  Skowhegan  and  Sagada- 

hoc — 
And  there,  as  Fate  had  willed  it  we  came  face  to  face  with 

daddy  Hock ! 
"  My  children  !  "  he  with  rapture  cried,  and  hugged  as  if  to 

smother  us, 
"  Fly  not  to  the  Aroostook  woods  and  run  away  and  bother 

us, 

Oh,  marry,  love  and  settle  down,  at  Souneunk  or  Walsegock, 
Behold  the  license  for  the  deed  I  got  at  Bssequalsegock  !  " 
We  wept  in  silence,  then  came  back,  and,  looking  somewhat 

sinister, 

To — I — we — ummmm — oh,  yes  ! 
Were  hitched  together  by  a  mild  Matainiscontis  minister. 


MOUNT   HOPK,    NARRAGANSETT  BAY.  63 

MOUNT  HOPE,  NARRAGANSETT  BAY.19 

I  stroll  through  verdant  fields  to-day, 
Through  waving  woods  and  pastures  sweet, 
And  find  the  savage  warrior's  seat, 

Where  liquid  voices  of  the  bay 
Babble  in  tropic  tongues  around  its  rocky  feet. 

I  put  my  lips  to  Philip's  spring  ; 

I  sit  in  Philip's  granite  chair  ; 

And  thence  I  climb  up,  stair  by  stair, 
And  stand  where  stood  the  martyr-king 
When  he,  with  eye  of  hawk,  cleft  the  blue  round  of  air. 

On  Narragansett's  sunny  breast 
This  necklace  of  fair  islands  shone, 
And  Philip,  muttering  "  all  my  own  !  " 
Looked  North  and  South  and  East  and  West, 
And  waved  his  scepter  from  this  alabaster  throne. 

His  beacon  on  Pocasset  Hill, 

Far-shining  with  his  dreaded  fame 

Whene'er  the  crafty  Pequot  came, 
Blazed  as  the  eyes  of  yonder  mill 
Blaze  now  at  set  of  sun,  in  Day's  expiring  flame. 

Always,  at  midnight,  from  a  cloud, 
An  eagle  swoops,  and,  hovering  nigh, 
Assails  this  peak  with  fearful  cry 

Of  wrath  and  anguish,  long  and  loud, 
And  plunges  once  again  into  the  silent  sky. 

The  Wampanoags,  struck  with  dread, 
To  these  green  islands  used  to  cling, 
And  watched  this  shrieking  midnight  thing 
With  bated  breath,  and,  shuttering,  said 
"  'Tis  angry  Philip's  voice — the  spectre  of  the  king! " 


64          THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

All  things  are  changed.     Here  Bristol  sleeps 
And  dreams  within  her  emerald  tent ; 
Yonder  are  picnic  tables  bent 

Beneath  their  burden  ;  up  the  steeps 
The  martial  strains  arise  and  songs  of  merriment. 

I  pluck  an  aster  on  the  crest : 
It  is  a  child  of  one,  I  know, 
Here  plucked  two  hundred  years  ago 

And  worn  upon  the  slave-queen's  breast ; — 
O,  that  this  blossom  had  a  tongue  to  tell  its  woe  ! 

SENTIMENT. 

That  vacant  chair  !  That  vacant  chair  ! 

I  lingered  sadly  musing  there, 

And  thought  how  late  a  sentient  form 

Had  pressed  the  crimson  cushion  warm, 

Now  empty  and  untenanted  ; 

And  yet  it  thrilled  me  not  with  dread, 

Nay,  pleasure  rather — glad  and  free 

Its  broad  arms  seemed  to  beckon  me. 

I  sat  me  down,  and  thought  a  space 

Of  him  so  lately  in  my  place  ; 

Upon  the  velvet  bank  I  laid 

My  head,  serene  and  unafraid. 

Ah,  treacherous  tranquillity  ! 

We  feel  secure  when  storms  are  nigh  ! 

Across  my  face  that  barber  swope 

His  brush,  and  filled  my  mouth  with  soap  ! 


No  dolt  ere  felt  the  subtle  poke 
With  good  opinion  of  the  joke, 


COMMENT  ON  HIS  I,ATER  VERSES.  65 

COMMENT  ON  HIS  LATER  VERSES. 

"  Tumble  nature  heels  o'er  head,  and  yelling  with  the  yell- 

iug  street, 
Set  the  feet  above  the  brain  and  swear  the  brain  is  in  the 

feet." 
If  you  saw  those  lines  this  moment  for  the  first  time  in  your 

life, 

Saw  the  cracy  acrobatics,  heard  the  racket  and  the  strife, 
What  great  poet  would  you  fancy,  writhing  in  immortal  pain, 
Had  expelled  the  mighty  couplet  from  his  convoluted  brain  ? 
Would  you  think  of    playful    Holmes   recording  a   police 

assault  ? 
Would  it  guess  that  Stedman  writ  it  ?  would  you  charge  it  up 

to  Walt  ? 

O,  my  child,  I'll  not  deceive  you,  and  I  will  delay  no  more 
Telling  you  the  wretched  truth,  although  it  make  you  sick 

and  sore. 
Nearer,  child,  O,  lean  and  listen  !    It  is  Tennyson's  latest 

chord, — 
His  who  hooted  at  De  Vere  before  the  Queen  had  called  him 

"Lord"— 
Yes,  my  child,  'twas  he  who  flipped  it,  for  we  heard  the 

cynic's  call 
As  he  tacked  some  tattered  shingles  on  the  roof  of  Locksley 

Hall. 

Leave  thy  tuneless  harp  unfingered  ;  leave  it,  Baron  Tenny- 
son ! 

Vanished  is  thine  art,  magician,  and  Ihy  magic  touch  is  gone. 
Blind    thy  cherished    orbs,    O,    Laureate,    and    thine    aged 

fingers  shake 
Like  the  faltering  wizard,  Merlin,  when  he  lingered  by  the 

lake. 


66  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Doff  thy  coronet,  O,  Veteran  ;  they  but  mock  thee  with  the 

gaud ; 
Make  a  pen-rack  of  it — deck  it  with  the  quill  that  wrote  of 

"Maud." 
They  are  sporting  with  thy  weaknesses  ;  O,  Master  write  no 

more, 
Lest  thou  meet  the  fate  of  Samson  at  the  Dagon's  temple 

door! 


RECEIVED  BY  HIS  PROTOTYPE— 1893. 

I  lingered  by  the  Square  of  Lafayette 

On  March  4th,  eve  ;  a  city  beacon  flung 

Its  flickering  jet  against  the  spangled  sky, 

When  from  the  Avenue  a  carriage  gay 

Went  dashing  through  the  gate  and  up  the  path 

That  curves  unto  the  Presidential  door. 

Just  then  I  heard  a  joyous  cry,  "  Git  up  !  " 
And  saw,  amazed,  in  center  of  the  Square, 
Old  Hickory  prancing  on  the  brazen  steed 
And  digging  deep  the  rowel  in  its  flank. 
He  shouted  once  again,  and,  with  a  plunge, 
His  fearless  charger  cleared  the  iron  fence 
And  leaped  across  the  street  and  up  the  way. 
I  heard  a  voice— an  earnest,  cheery  voice — 
And  listened  to  the  burden  of  the  speech : 

"  Welcome  back,  O,  Frank  and  Grover  ! 

How  it  tickles  me  all  over 

Just  to  hear  the  truck  that  trundles 

In  with  all  your  duds  and  bundles  ! 

Seems  a  century  since  we  parted — 

Since  you  packed  your  things  and  started. 


RECEIVED  BY  HIS  PROTOTYPE.  67 

Four  years  changes  !  You  have  known  some 
But  I've  been  most  awful  lonesome. 
Hurrah,  neighbor  !  Welcome  back 
From  the  lakes  of  Saranac  ! 

"  Ma'am,  you're  looking  handsome,  very, 
Plump  as  partridge,  brown  as  berry, 
Pictures  never  catch  your  color — 
Good  deal  paler,  tamer,  duller, — 
Little  Ruth,  they  say,  you're  bringing 
For  to  fill  the  house  with  singing. 
O,  I've  waited  four  long  summers 
Watching  fashionable  comers, 
Homesick  for  to  see  you  back 
From  the  shades  of  Saranac. 

"  Though  an  oldish  veteran,  may  be 
You  will  let  me  hold  the  baby— 
O,  my  arms  are  iron-plated  ; 
They  have  crushed  the  men  I  hated — 
Biddle,  Clay,  Calhoun  and  Adams — 
All  my  enemies,  and  madam's  ! 
Ruth  is  different,  altogether, 
Bless  her  !  lighter  than  a  feather  ! 
Lucky  day  that  brought  you  back 
From  the  woods  of  Saranac. 

Upon  his  hand  of  mail  he  took  the  babe 

And  gently  dandled  her  and  softly  cooed 

Some  inarticulate  wisdom  in  her  ear, 

Then  in  the  mother's  anxious  arms  replaced 

The  rosy  child,  in  stately  fashion  bowed," 

And  said  "  Good  night !  I'll  watch  across  the  way." 

He  struck  the  brazen  steed  with  both  his  spurs  ; 
It  reared,  and,  wkh  a  single  mighty  bound, 


68  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Reoccupied  the  granite  pedestal. 
The  cocked  hat  held  he  in  his  hand  aloft, 
Upon  the  bit  he  drew  the  tightened  rein — 
A  single  clang  of  sword  and  all  was  still. 
A  phantom  griffin  in  the  darkening  air 
The  ghostly  charger  stood,  his  balance  true, 
Like  Druid  rocking-stone,  or  Pisan  tower, 
On  Mills's  celebrated  hinder  legs. 

THE  SILENT  HORSEMAN. 

A  horseman  halted  at  my  door  ; 

All  grey  his  beard  and  dull  his  eye  ; 
He  turned  an  hour-glass  in  his  hand 
Bright  shining  with  its  silver  sand 
And  whispered  "  From  the  silent  shore — 
Prepare — prepare  to  die  !  " 

With  autumn  leaves  his  brow  was  crowned, 

And,  leaning  forward  in  his  pall, 
He  spoke  again  beneath  his  breath, 
"  O,  careless  mortal !  I  am  Death  ! 
My  good  steed  moves  without  a  sound — 
Be  ready  when  I  call !  " 

"  Thy  days  are  brief  !  "  he  fiercely  cried, 

And  high  his  mighty  sceptre  swung  ; 
"  All  days  are  brief  !  All  years  are  few, 
And  Death's  demands  are  always  due, 
For  dread  decay  shall  quick  betide 
The  strong,  the  fair,  the  young  ! 

I  seized  his  rein  and  said  "  Too  well 
I  know  thee  for  a  braggart  knave, 
And  spurn  thy  menace  imbecile  ; 


THE  SII,ENT   HORSEMAN.  69 

What  terrors  can  thy  mask  reveal  ?  " 
He  trembled,  and  the  hour-glass  fell 
And  shivered  on  the  pave. 

"  But  I  am  Death  and  will  be  feared  !  " 

He  shook  his  baton  of  command. 
"  Pretender  and  impostor  grim, 
There  is  no  Death  !  "  I  answered  him 
And  plucked  him  by  his  ancient  beard — 
It  shriveled  in  my  hand  ! 

The  eyes  behind  his  helmet  bars 

Turned  pale  in  furtive  fear  of  strife  ; 
I  pushed  the  point :  "  no  juggler  can 
Disguise  the  cheat  and  charlatan  ! 
Thou  phantom  of  the  deathless  stars, 
I  know  thy  name  is  Life  !  " 

"  All  I  destroy  !  "  he  murmured,  "  all !  " 

"  Sophist !  "  I  answered,  "  Nay,  not  so  ! 
With  youth  and  hope  thy  pulses  fill ; 
Thy  veins  with  vital  ichor  thrill, 
And  where  this  evening's  blossoms  fall, 
To-morrow's  buds  shall  blow  ! 

"  Behold  !  "  and  pointed  to  his  crown 

Of  dead  leaves  from  the  winter's  tomb  ; 
"  Behold  the  stipules,  springing  green  ! 
Behold  the  petals  pink  between  ! 
Behold  thy  sceptre,  dead  and  brown, 
Like  Aaron's  rod  abloom  !  " 

He  dropped  his  sceptre  with  a  clang — 

It  bourgeoned  to  a  leafing  tree  ! 
JIe  turned  and  fled  thrcugh  festal  bowers, 


70  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

His  coronet  a  vine  of  flowers, 
And  in  his  hoof-track  roses  sprang — 
A  flaming  prophecy. 


LOVER'S  LEAP.20 

Three  hundred  years  ago — the  time  I  speak  of. 

Upon  this  granite  cliff  above  the  river 

A  nut-brown  maiden  sat,  impatient  waiting  ; 

With  eye  of  sparrow  gazed  across  the  water, 

With  ear  of  partridge  bent  her  head  and  listened, 

Waving  anon  a  fiery  spray  of  sumac. 

Far  off  she  saw  the  Naugatuck,  down  shining, 

Render  its  largess  to  the  Housatonic, 

That  joyfully,  along  its  narrow  channel 

Beneath  her  feet,  ran  babbling  to  the  ocean. 

Her  name  was  Nennapush,  and  she  the  daughter 
Of  Santoway,  the  chief,  whose  birch-bark  cabin 
Beyond  the  Wepawaug,  received  the  homage 
Of  all  the  tribes  around — his  truant  daughter 
Who,  many  a  morning,  stole  away  and  waited, 
To  keep  upon  this  rock  the  tryst  forbidden 
With  young  Sequassen  from  across  the  valley, — 
The  brave  of  Pootatuck.     She  gazed  about  her, 
Then  smiled  and  bent  her  eager  head  and  listened, 
And  sang  and  swung  aloft  the  flame  of  sumac. 

Her  tawny  arms  were  bare  ;  her  sable  tresses 
Swept  round  her  polished  shoulders  ;  on  her  bosom 
A  triple  string  of  sea-shells,  iridescent, 
Swung  low  and  softly  tinkled,  and  the  mantle 
Drawn  round  her  lissom  form  had  once  enveloped 
A  gray  wolf  on  the  hills.     Her  feet  were  naked, 


COVER'S  I,E;AP.  71 

And  o'er  her  ankles  crept  caressing  grasses 
And  fragrant  flowers. 

Above  the  leafy  summits 

Of  trees  that  rooted  far  below,  faint  glimpses 
She  caught  of  one  brown  spot  upon  the  highland 
Between  the  meeting  of  the  wedded  rivers, 
And  knew  it  held  the  wigwam  of  Sequassen. 

She  breathed  his  name,  then  bent  her  head  and  listened  : 

That  name  the  river's  pebbly  margin  murmured  ; 

The  barberry  prattled  of  it  in  the  sunshine 

As  merrily  it  shook  its  coral  jewels  ; 

The  bobolink  chirped  it  to  the  burning  maple  ; 

The  brown  bee  hummed  it  as  he  bore  his  burden 

Of  golden  nectar  to  the  cloven  pine  tree  ; 

The  gossiping  breeze,  that  bowed  the  yellow  lily 

And  purple  aster,  and  the  breath  of  balsam 

Brought  from  the  shadows  of  the  dusky  hemlock, 

Whispered  the  sibilant  secret  down  the  valley. 

She  softly  sang  and  bent  her  head  and  listened, 

Then  shook  a  hollow  gourd,  whose  dry  seeds  rattled — 

The  pledge  of  luck  and  plague  of  evil  spirits — 

And  laughed  aloud  and  waved  the  flame  of  sumac. 

Alas  !  Her  bright  eyes  saw,  and  yet  saw  nothing. 

She  saw  not,  far  beneath,  along  the  river, 

A  vassal  of  the  Sagamore,  her  father, 

Creep  stealthily,  an  arrow  on  his  bow-string. 

She  only  saw,  within  the  mellow  distance, 

The  quick  pulsations  of  a  flashing  paddle, 

The  water  dancing  o'er  it  like  a  fountain. 

And  so  she  smiled  and  bent  her  head  and  listened, 

And  shook  the  gourd  and  swung  the  flame  of  sumac. 

Along  the  air  the  light  canoe  came  flying, 


72  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Nor  seemed  to  touch  the  wave  that  laughed  below  it, 
The  prow  turned  shoreward  as  two  hearts  beat  faster. 
She  sang  his  name  and  swung  the  flame  of  sumac  ; 
He  lifted  up  his  face  and  softly  warbled, 
His  fingers  on  his  lips,  the  "  Oo-la-loo-la  !  " 
And  then  without  a  look  or  word,  as  sudden 
As  sword  of  lightning  cuts  the  cloudless  ether, 
He  swayed  and  plunged  beneath  the  rushing  river  ! 

She  flung  the  treacherous  gourd  away,  and  crying 
"  The  river  demons  drag  him  to  their  grotto — 
My  lover,  brave  Sequassen  !  "  hurried  onward 
And  cast  herself,  head  foremost,  off  the  bastion. 

The  river  babbled  onward  to  the  ocean 

Singing  sweet  songs  above  the  twain,  and  lulled  them 

To  slumber  in  each  other's  arms,  to  waken 

In  that  fair  Land  of  Hope  where  all  is  summer. 


SCARCELY  BENEATH  HIS  NOTICE. 

"  You're  beneath  my  notice,  sir. 
You're  a  liar  !  you're  a  cur  ! 
Yes,  a  knave  of  low  degree  ! 
So  polluted  few  there  be  ; 
You're  an  imp  in  human  shape  ! 
You're  a  devil,  catiff,  ape  ! 
You're  a  serpent  in  the  grass  ! 
Scurvy  traitor  !  Judas  !  ass  ! 
You're  a  scoundrel  bathed  in  vice — 
Liar  !  but  I've  said  that  twice — 
This  is  wherefore  I  aver 
You're  beneath  my  notice,  sir  !  " 


"WHY  is  A — ?"  73 

"WHY  IS  A—?" 

•*  Willie,  here's  a  conundrum  !  Why's  a — " 
Then  as  she  stammered  and  paused  to  think, 

He  cried,  "  Shoot  it  off !  Whoop  'er  up,  'Liza  ! 
Bet  y'  I'll  guess  it  quicker'n  a  wink." 

"  Wait,  Impatience  !  Give  me  a  minute  !  " 

She  pleaded,  adding,  "  What  crime  is  a  tar — " 

And  stuck  once  more.     "  There's  a  good  joke  in  it ! ' 
She  murmured,  while  he,  "  How  slow  you  are  !  " 

Again  she  began,  "  What  crime  does  a  sailor, 

In  soldier's  quarters  taken  sick, 
Resemble  ?     Now,  you  noisy  railer  ! 

Guess  it !  Give  us  the  answer  quick  !  " 

He  guessed  three  weeks  and  didn't  get  nigh  it ; 

Ate  fish  to  strengthen  his  phosphoric  brain  ; 
Set  all  his  ingenious  friends  to  try  it ; 

Then  got  shampooed,  and  went  at  it  again. 

At  last  gave  up,  and  she  told  the  answer  : 

"  A  sailor  sick  in  such  a  place,  Will, 
Is  like  an  attempt  to  murder  a  man,  Sir  ! — 

You  see  he's  a  salt  within  tent  took  ill !  " 

A  shriek  like  the  whoop  of  a  Sioux  he  uttered, 
Then  fell  in  a  swoon.     They  poulticed  his  head  ; 

In  a  week  they  saw  that  his  pulse  still  fluttered  ; 
In  a  month  they  bolstered  him  up  in  bed.          ^ 

The  doctor  sought  Eliza  to  tell  her, 

"  Your  William  is  crazy — observe  that  grin  ; 

His  mind  still  wanders,  you'll  kill  that  feller 
'F  you  ever  conundrum  to  him  ag'in  !  " 


74  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

THE  isERE.21 

Now,  welcome,  thrice  welcome  the  Gallic  Isere  ! 
The  matron,  Columbia,  majestic  and  fair, 
With  bright  prairie-blossoms  asleep  in  her  hair, 
Draws  tighter  her  girdle,  steps  down  from  her  chair, 
And  hastens  to  welcome  the  gallant  Isere. 

The  people  flock  round  the  illustrious  pair, 

Each  feeling  himself  of  their  glory  the  heir  ; 

"  Her  footstool  make  ready  !  "  they  cry  ;  "  firm  and  square 

And  comely  the  pedestal  build  to  upbear 

The  foot  of  the  goddess — the  guest  of  Isere." 

How  myriads  respond  to  the  World's  bugle-blare  ! 

As  Roderick's  elf-horn,  alarming  the  air, 

Drew  clans  to  his  ambush  mysterious,  where 

He  leaps  as  their  chief  from  his  patriot  lair, 

So  now,  to  the  World's  call  the  world  comes  to  share 

The  burden  and  pleasure  of  helping  prepare 

On  islet  of  harbor  the  granite-laid  stair 

For  the  goddess  to  mount  from  the  deck  of  Isere. 

They  flock  from  the  hills  with  their  tribute  ;  they  fare 
From  East,  South  and  West,  and  their  homage  declare : 
The  old  and  the  young  and  the  fat  and  the  spare, 
The  high  and  the  humble,  the  awkward  and  yare, — 
They  bring  to  the  service  of  Liberty  their 
Occasional  dollars  and  eagles  more  rare, 
Their  numerous  nickles  and  dimes  solitaire, 
Resolved  to  secure  a  "  successful  affair  " 
For  the  goddess  who  comes  as  the  guest  of  Isere. 

And  when  yon  green  islet  its  glory  shall  wear — 
When  Liberty  rears  in  her  magesty,  there 
An  altar  and  shrine  for  the  patriot's  prayer, 


COI,D  WEATHER  REFLECTIONS.  75 

Where  freemen  anew  may  fidelity  swear 

And  looking  upon,  they  shall  never  despair — 

When  Tyranny  reads,  by  her  eyes'  mystic  stare 

And  by  her  high  torch's  electrical  glare, 

The  syllables  writ  in  the  zenith  "  Beware  !  " 

We  then  shall  remember  the  World's  bugle-blare 

What  time  Dame  Columbia  stepped  down  from  her  chair 

And  came  to  the  sea  to  salute  the  Isere  ! 

COLD  WEATHER  REFLECTIONS. 

Old  Winter  has  come  after  months  of  delay, 
And  Zero  again  is  our  guardian  and  guide  ; 
The  wing-footed  skaters  are  up  and  away 
And  thousands  of  lovers  are  taking  a  sleigh- 
Ride. 

Our  colds  we  are  dosing  with  quinine  and  squills. 

The  stove-men  are  gaily  renewing  their  din. 
The  plumbers  again  over  plethoric  tills 
Are  merrily,  cheerily  sending  their  bills 
In. 

We're  not  without  solacing  pleasures  the  while  ; 

Society  brings  its  ephemeral  show  ; 
The  drama  the  season  assists  to  beguile  ; 
To-night  ?  Ah,  Salvini !  I  recollect   I'll 
Go. 

-I--J- 

If  Lazarus  was  livin'  now,  and  sot  in  some  man's  door, 

And  that  man's  dog  should  limp  along  and  lick  ole  Laz's 

sore, 

I'm  satisfied,  fer  all  the  Christian  feelin'  that  he  has, 
He'd  station-house  the  tramp  an'  lick  the  dog  fer  lickin'  Laz. 


THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

SONGS. 


CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

Christmas  morning  comes  again 

And  climbs  the  winter  sky, 
It  glorifies  each  hill  and  plain 

And  gladdens  every  eye. 
It  wafts  the  bright  and  brimming  cup 

Of  charity  along, 
And  fills  the  heart  with  music  up, 

And  sets  the  lip  to  song. 

CHORUS  : 

Joyous  morning ! 

Banishing  the  night ! 
Earth  adorning — 

Lovely  in  the  light ! 
May  the  merry  Christmas  go 

To  hut  and  hall, 
Health  bestow  on  high  and  low 

And  joy  to  all  ! 

Ring  the  Merry  Christmas  bell 

In  every  steeple-tower, 
And  let  a  thousand  voices  swell 

The  carol  of  the  hour. 
To-day  the  cloud  of  sorrow  lifts 

And  sunny  skies  are  seen, 
And  Love  shall  hang  its  goodly  gifts 

Upon  the  evergreen  !     [CHORUS.] 

May  Plenty  all  his  store  unbind 

Till  Hunger  shall  be  fed, 
Till  Wretchedness  a  hope  shall  find, 

And  Penury  a  bed. 


THE  YACHT   FALCON — 1884.  77 

May  good  Kriss  Kringle  plant  his  tree 

Within  the  cottage  door, 
This  holiday  of  charity, — 

This  Sabbath  of  the  poor.     [CHORUS.] 

Then  strife  and  hate  shall  float  away, 

And  nevermore  be  seen, 
And  Love  shall  hang  his  flowers  to-day 

Upon  the  evergreen. 
May  good  Kriss  Kringle  plant  his  tree 

Amid  each  merry  throng, 
To  fill  the  heart  with  melody, 

And  set  the  lip  to  song  !     [CHORUS.] 

THE  YACHT  FALCON— 1884.22 

Falcon  fair,  of  pinion  free, 

Bird  of  flight  undaunted, 
By  the  singing  of  the  sea 

Be  her  praises  chanted. 

CHORUS  : 

As  she  mounts  the  wave  and  flings 

Foamy  fountains  from  her, 
We,  beneath  her  drowsy  wings, 
Dream  away  the  summer. 

Drifting  on  from  day  to  day, 

Past  the  purple  highlands, 
Through  the  shadow-haunted  bay, 

Round  the  shining  islands. 

Far  away  from  eager  crowds 

And  the  land's  commotion, 
Dancing  with  the  dancing  clouds 

O'er  the  azure  ocean. 


78  THE   PROPHECY  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Morning  sends  her  rosy  rays 
O'er  the  water  streaming, 

So  the  golden  summer  days 
Glide  away  in  dreaming. 

CHORUS : 

As  she  mounts  the  wave  and  flings 

Foamy  fountains  from  her, 
We,  beneath  her  drowsy  wings, 
Dream  away  the  summer. 

CHARGES  SUMNER— 1874. 

My  country,  once  again 
Upon  thy  stricken  plain 

A  soldier  lies ; 
A  well-beloved  son, 
With  all  his  armor  on, 
Falls  when  the  battle's  won, 

A  sacrifice. 

How  sleeps  his  honored  head  ! 
How  it  is  garlanded  ! 

How,  at  his  tomb, 
With  loving,  saddened  face, 
Weeps  an  uplifted  race  ! 
On  that  tear-moistened  place 

Shall  lilies  bloom ! 

Sumner  can  never  die  ; 
He  lives  beyond  the  sky 

Where  all  is  fair  ; 
Giddings  and  Seward  gone, 
Greeley  and  Chase,  passed  on, 
Lincoln  and  Old  John  Brown 

Shall  greet  him  there  ! 


ROBINS   IN  THE   MORNING.  79 

They  fell  for  freedom's  cause  ; 
They  wrought  for  righteous  laws 

O'er  all  the  land  ; 
They  sought  to  bless  the  State — 
To  break  the  chains  of  hate  ; 
O,  let  us  emulate 

That  Patriot  Band ! 


ROBINS  IN  THE  MORNING. 

Hail  Robin  Redbreast !  "  welcome  vernal  wonder  ! 

Thou  scarlet-throated  usher  of  the  morn — " 
So  warbles  Connor,  blindly  struggling  under 

A  contract  still  to  wind  his  rythmic  horn — 
But  when  he  might  search  all  the  realms  of  nature, 
How  could  he  praise  this  dissipated  creature  ? 

Oh  !  what  a  night  I've  had  !  At  ten  o'clock 
('Tis  sunrise  now,)  I  sought  my  grateful  bed  ; 

In  four  hours,  robins  in  a  countless  flock 
Began  their  calithutnpian  serenade, 

And  kept  it  up,  from  two  o'clock  to  six, — 

A  clatter  like  a  million  lunatics  ! 

I  have  not  had  a  single  wink  of  sleep 

Since  these  marauders  waked  among  the  branches, 
With  oaths  and  gibberish,  as  if  bound  to  keep 

The  riot  like  so  many  wild  Camanches  ; 
The  jolly  gabblers — law  and  order  scorning, — 
'Twas  obvious  they  would'nt  go  home  till  morning. 

"Squeak!   squeak!  chirp!  chirp!"  and  shriek  and  scream 

repeating, 

Each  voice  resounding  loud  enough  to  crack  it ! 
And  still,  assembled  in  protracted  meeting, 


8o  THE;  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  revellers  keep  up  the  confounded  racket. 
"  Oh  !  robin  redbreast !  oh  !  thou  vernal  wonder — " 
I  wish  'twould  split  your  gaudy  throat  asunder  ! 

Poor  Dryden,  rich  in  eulogistic  words, 
Lived  on  the  bounty  of  the  flattered  king  ; 

So  Connor,  poet  laureate  of  birds, 

Lauds  any  fledgling  that  is  said  to  sing. 

Thus,  as  the  rustic  falls  a  prey  to  sharpies, 

Are  cits  delighted  with  these  feathered  harpies  ! 

Ah  !  how  my  head  aches  !  Still  the  red  throats  ripple 
With  shrill  refrains,  inviting  every  missile  ; 

They're  drunk  upon  the  atmospheric  tipple, 
And  sing  in  chorus  like  a  varnished  whistle. 

Monotonous  music,  all  without  a  flaw, 

As  when  a  blacksmith  files  a  saw-mill  saw. 

Do  you,  dear  lady,  tell  me,  to  my  face, 

That  I'm  "  a  brute  "  and  this  a  cruel  creed  ? 

I  deprecate  your  wrath — in  proper  place 
I  like  those  birdies  very  much  indeed — 

On  toast,  you  know ;  yes,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Kelly, 

With  green  peas — and  a  little  currant  jelly. 

R.  B.  H.  TO  S.  J.  T— 1877. 

Sadly  I  salute  thee,  lucky  friend  and  rival  ; 
Sadly  I  confess  that  thou  hast  won  the  battle  ; 
Are  the  fruits  of  victory  in  this  struggle  always 
Gathered  by  the  vanquished  ? 

Here  I  find  myself  but  the  slave  of  office — 
Slave  of  whims  and  forms — everybody's  lacquey  ; 
While  thou  sittest  there,  dignified  and  placid, 
Free  and  independent. 


PERHAPS.  8l 

I  but  come  and  go  at  the  beck  of  others, — 
"  Leaders,"  who  are  bustling  noisily  around  me 
In  a  patriotic  fervor  which  is  nourished 
By  the  spoils  of  party. 

Wheresoe'er  I  turn  is  the  office-seeker  ; 
Wheresoe'er  I  turn  are  the  bore  and  flunkey ; 
Wheresoe'er  I  turn  are  my  own  bulldozers 
Seeking  to  devour  rue  ! 

Wheresoe'er  I  turn  is  the  scandal-monger  ; 
See  the  name  I  cherish  covered  with  reproaches  ! 
I  am  launched  already  on  a  dark  and  boundless 
Sea  of  defamation. 

Humbly  I  salute  thee,  lucky  friend  and  brother, 
Envy  thee  thy  peace,  happiness  and  freedom, 
For  a  week  discloses  that  success  is  failure — 
He  who  wins  is  beaten  ! 


PERHAPS.23 

I  tossed  and  dreamed  again,  and  as  I  dreamt 
A  crimson  fissure  opened  in  the  sky, 
Revealing  wondrous  vistas  stretching  far 
Beyond  the  lurid  battlements  of  cloud — 
Forests  and  lakes  and  flowers  and  singing  birds 
And  silver  fountains  dancing  joyously. 
Upon  a  bosky  bank  some  children  played, 
And  standing  spellbound  there  a  bright-eyed  boy- 
A  high-browed,  eager  boy,  with  listening  face 
And  lips  all  quivering  with  new  found  life. 
Across  the  lawn  there  came  and  greeted  him 
A  graceful  girl  with  large,  blue,  beaming  eyes, 
And  shining  hair  that  fell  in  yellow  floss 


82  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Rippling  around  her  shoulders.    Tenderly 
She  bade  him  welcome,  took  his  hand  in  hers 
And  stooped  and  kissed  him,  calling  him  by  name. 
(I  knew  her  sweet  face  and  her  gentle  voice.) 
She  pointed  down  the  pathway  whence  he  came 
And  asked  him  questions,  and  he  answered  her, 
And  when  she  smiled  her  face  was  full  of  heaven. 
She  led  him  where  the  rarest  blossoms  grew, 
Described  the  curious,  myriad  forms  of  life, 
Taught  him  to  listen  to  the  music  which, 
On  languid  zephyrs,  stole  along  the  air, 
And  he  was  happy. 

They  rejoined  the  play. 
A  laugh  arose — a  clear  and  gurgling  laugh, 
And  I  awoke.     Awoke,  and  morn  had  come  ; 
And  up  the  sky,  a  splendid  ship  aflame, 
Sailed  in  a  gulf  of  gold  the  rising  sun. 


TRUTHFUL  BIDDY. 

"  Dear  me  !  Who  broke  my  favorite  egg  ?  " 

Cried  Biddy  Bantam  to  her  daughter 
Who,  balanced  on  a  single  leg, 

Stood,  pensive,  near  the  purling  water. 
The  child  gave  one  pathetic  craw, 

Her  rueful  tears  began  to  thicken, 
She  sobbed  aloud  "  I  broke  it,  Maw  ! 

This  little  person  is  my  chicken. 
I'll  lime  and  nice  albumen  buy 

And  make  another  one  to  match  it ; 
O,  Ma  !  I  cannot  tell  a  lie, 

I  did  it  with  my  little  hatch  it !  " 


A   RUSSIAN   LEGEND.  83 

A  RUSSIAN  LEGEND. 

The  red  Russian  sun  had  set, 

But  a  warm  tint  lingered  yet 
And  suffused  the  heights  of  Kharizanlinskoi, 

Near  which  a  maiden  dwelt 

Named  Tscheckernigvenskiveldt, 
And  she  loved  Odonelafuskideloi, 

"  Dear  Tscheckernie  !  "  murmured  he 

"  Wilt  thou  still  remember  me, 
For  thine  absent  boy  the  same  affection  have 

When  I'm  fighting  on  the  slope 

Of  Kneiffikowsumpskop, 
Or  crossing  the  Ekaterinoslav  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Olie,  dear  !  "  she  cried, 

"  Am  I  not  to  be  thy  bride  ? 
Nothing  never  can  dissever  me  from  thee  ; 

Would  that  I  to-day  could  ride  off 

At  thy  side  through  Kameskidoff 
To  the  army  as  Pravolazhopperskae  !  " 

Yet  he  urged  "  My  love  !  My  own  ! 

Wilt  be  true  when  I  am  gone  ?  " 
And  she  laid  her  little  lily  hand  in  his  ; 

"  Wilt  be  true  as  yonder  star 

When  I'm  fighting  for  the  Czar 
At  Osmanjik  or  Phillipopolis  ?  " 

And  she  answered  "  Here  I  swear  ! 

You  may  wander  everywhere, 
I  will  never  smile  on  any  other  love — 

Not  the  Prince  of  Solienkorsk, 

Duke  of  Krasnovitcheborsk, 
Of  the  Baron  of  Zirpoukwiamzahov." 


84          THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

As  she  bowed  her  lovely  head, 

He  snatched  his  sword  and  fled 
To  join  his  general,  Nepokotichitski : 

"  Farewell,  thou  peerless  damsel ! 

I  go  to  Dschesairvemsel, 
And  possibly  to  Kizilkirghivitski." 

When  five  long  months  had  passed 

He  wrote  from  Koldeplast 
"  Our  flag  floats  over  Potchinokilanisk 

We  have  captured  Bosna-Sara 

And  Waloskydumskalara 
And  Zedenkurskargopoloradskidauisk. 

"  Last  Saturday  we  took 

Valeditski-Bonzoulouk 
To-day  we're  taking  Solgoditchefinsk, 

To-morrow  we  shall  go 

Through  Lotchokjavanavo, 
And  home  by  way  of  Bogorodibinsk." 

She'd  another  lover  then, 
Spite  of  all  her  oaths,  and  when 

The  letter  came,  beside  his  knee  she  sat — 
Johann  Hildburgmingenhausen, 
Born  in  Schwartzeburg-Kniphausen, 

And  she  married  him  directly  after  that. 

The  next  winter,  every  morn 
To  the  birds  she  flung  some  corn, 

And  she  fed  the  very  ravens  that  had  wheeled 
Over  warring  southern  zones, 
And  had  picked  poor  Olie's  bones 

On  the  Bielowkourokino  battle-field, 


CHRISTMAS  MORXI*G.  85 

CHRISTMAS  MORNING. 
WRITTEN  DURING  THE  RUSSO-TURKISH  WAR— 1877. 

"  Go,"  He  spake  unto  the  Angel,  and  His  face  was  full  of 

light 
And  His  voice  was  sweet  as  music  breathed  upon  a  starry 

night ; 
"  Hasten!    Wing  thy  way  to  earthland.       Mark  if  man  by 

love  is  swayed  ; 

If  the  wolf  of  Hatred  longer  doth  molest  or  make  afraid  ; 
If  the  world  breeds  yet  the  ignorance  that  wove  my  thorny 

crown ; 
If  the  holy  centuries  brighten  since  I  laid  my  burden  down. 

Bowed  before  the  Sacred  Presence,  the  fair  messenger  with- 
drew, 

Floated  from  the  radiant  ramparts  where  celestial  breezes 
blew, 

Glided  through  the  azure  meadows  where  the  starry  morning 
sings, 

Dropped  adown  the  shining  spaces  with  the  sun  upon  his 
wings, 

Till  the  warm  earth  rose  around  him  and  he  heard  a  bugle- 
horn — 

He  was  in  the  Balkan  passes,  and  the  time  was  Christmas 
morn. 

As   he  turns,  his  cheek  is  smitten  with  the  cannon's   fiery 

breath, 

And  across  the  blind  abysses  plunge  the  cavalry  of  Death. 
On   the  snowy  slopes  of  Plevna  are   the  Russian   batteries 

wheeled, 

And  corpses  lie  in  ghastly  heaps  upon  the  reeking  field  ; 
Here  sweep  the  Lovatz  lancers — like  a  flash  they  disappear — 
Each  rider  yells  and  lifts  aloft  a  head  upon  his  spear  ! 


86  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Christmas  morning  with  the  wounded,  where  the  angry  ranks 

divide 

In  the  old  Berserker  madness,  writhing  on  the  mountain  side  ; 
Peasant-brothers,  locked  together  where  the  river  seaward 

slips, 
And  with  faces  fierce  with  passion,  die  with  curses  on  their 


Christmas  morning  in  the  village  where  the  mad  invaders 

slay 
Mothers  singing  at  their  spinning, — babies  prattling  at  their 

play. 

Christmas  morning  in   the  Northland,  where  the   Russian 

soldier's  wife 
Looks  through  tears,  with  fluttering  pulses,  on  the  bulletins 

of  strife. 
Christmas  morning  in   the  Southland,  where  the  Turkish 

maidens  wait 
For  the  sweethearts  who  shall  never  come  to  greet  them  at 

the  gate. 

Christmas  morning  by  the  camp-fire  of  the  Cossack  cavalcade, 
Where  the  sad-eyed    sister  writes    to  Northern  wife  and 

Southern  maid. 

Christmas  morning  in   the  churches,  where  the  priests  ati- 

nointed  pray 
That  the  Lord  will  lead  the  combat  and  the  hosts  of  Islam 

slay. 
Christmas  morning  in  the  Mosque,  where  the  Mollah  cries  to 

God 
To  baptize   the  sunny  valleys   with   the   Christian's   hated 

blood. 
Christmas  morning  in  the  battle,  where,  along  the  frenzied 

line, 


CHARGES  DARWIN— D.  C.  I,.  87 

Flags  unfurled  to  Christ  and  Mahomet,  with  the  cross  and 
crescent  shine ! 

Then  the  Angel,  eyes  of  pity  and  a  face  with  terror  white, 
With  a  wail  of  shame  and  sorrow,  vanished  on  his  upward 

flight, 
And  he  cried,  "  The  blood  of  brothers  mingles  with  the  bitter 

tears 
That    rush  hellward   like  a  deluge  in   the   torrent  of   the 

years. 
Fools !   Oh,  fools !  The  fiends  of  Hatred  strangle  still  the 

gentler  birth, 
And  lyove  is  still  an  outcast  from  the  temples  of  the  earth  !  " 


CHARLES  DARWIN— D.  C.  L. 

Darwin  arose  in  the  college  on  Saturday — 

Infidel !  Atheist !  priest  of  this  latter  day  ! 

Which  is  the  stronger,  the  old  pedagogue  or  he 

As  he  comes  forward  in  blazing-red  toggery  ? 

Honored  in  Cambridge,  the  great  University  ; 

Scientist,  destined  to  bless  it  or  curse  it  he  ! 

Who  was  the  father  from  whoni  every  son  had  come  ? 

Did  we  from  molecule,  mollusc  or  monad  come  ? 

Ah  !  sabe  dios  !  But  sure,  evolution  is 

Wiser  than  guessing  of  some  Lilliputian  is  ! 

Doctor  of  civil  law !  Give  his  degree  to  him  ; 
L/ittle  the  plain  decoration  will  be  to  him  ! 
In  blossom  and  star  a  sublime  revelation  is ; 
Knowledge  of  Nature,  the  New  Dispensation  is. 
Monkey  let  down  from  the  gallery  chattering, 
Nice-looking  person,  his  ancestors  flattering, 
Perched  on  a  chair,  he  declaims  like  a  Senator. 


88  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Student  exclaims  ;  "  Darwin,  here's  your  progenitor  !  " 
"  Yes,"  says  the  sage  ;  "  This  is  not  a  surprise  to  me  ; 
He  is  the  fellow  that  always  replies  to  me  !  " 

BROTHER  JONATHAN  TO  DOM  PEDRO.2* 

Hail,  equator-crowned  Braganza  ! 
To  our  guest  we  fling  a  stanza, 
Royal  ruler  of  the  tropics 
Best  and  timeliest  of  topics, 
Father  of  a  dozen  millions, 
Most  majestic  of  Brazilians, 
I  wave  welcome  to  your  clipper, — 
Lift  aloft  your  royal  flipper  ! 

All  the  world  has  cheered  your  order, 
"  Not  a  slave  within  my  border  !  " 
All  the  world  inquires  how  was  it 
That  you  blent  that  mass  composite 
With  no  serf  to  wear  a  collar. 
Pedro,  gentleman  and  scholar, 
Farmer,  miner,  weaver,  skipper, 
Cordially  I  grasp  your  flipper  ! 

Mingled  blood  and  varied  lingo 

From  Para  to  San  Domingo, 

From  Peru  to  Pernambuco, 

Black,  mulatto,  mamaluco, 

Men  from  every  clime  and  nation, 

Mixed  in  strange  conglomeration, 

Active  as  a  gallinipper — 

Pedro,  shake  !  Extend  your  flipper  ! 

Say  !  I  like  your  style  of  feller  ; 
How's  your  daughter,  Isabeller  ? 


TO  A  UZARD  IN  AMBER,  89 

How's  your  wife,  and  your  wife's  mother  ? 
How's  your  aunt  and  cousin's  brother  ? 
How's  your  sheep  and  colts  and  cattle  ? 
How's  the  last  Cafuzo  battle  ? 
Underneath  the  Northern  dipper 
Let  us  pledge  !  Here,  friend,  your  flipper  ! 

Don't  you  mind  my  little  troubles  ; 
Don't  you  watch  these  transient  bubbles  : 
General  rows  and  rows  domestic, 
Threats  and  plottings  anarchistic  ; 
Though  our  seas  are  rather  risky, 
Rough  as  your  ancestral  Biscay, 
Rogues  shall  feel  Columbia's  slipper ! 
Senyor  Pedro  !  Here's  my  flipper  ! 

Stars  and  Stripes  shall  dip  Hosanna 
To  your  green  and  golden  banner  ; 
Dom,  our  realms  are  both  extensive  : 
Let  us  form  a  league  defensive  : 
If  old  Europe  wants  to  meddle 
With  our  continent  or  peddle 
Crowns  around — we'll  join  and  whip  her  ! 
Mister  Pedro,  gi's  your  flipper  ! 

TO  A  LIZARD  IN  AMBER. 

O,  bright-eyed  swimmer  from  Triassic  seas  ! 

Thou  tiny  cousin  of  the  ichthyosaurus — 
What  mocking  sylph,  beneath  the  cypress  trees, 
Discarding  flies  and  fleas  and  bugs,  and  bees, 
Embalmed  thee  for  us  ? 

When  thou  wert  darting  through  a  fiery  path 
Millions  of  years  ago,  with  sinuous  motion, 


90          THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Was  old  earth  broiling  in  a  Turkish  bath  ? 
Did  Chaos  wallow  in  a  sea  of  wrath — 
A  sulphurous  ocean  ? 

Dwelt  thou  with  man  primeval  in  his  lair 

On  hills  Carpathian  or  desert  Lybian  ? 
Or  didst  thou  with  the  gods  Olympns  share, 
'Mid  such  high  state  living  unnoticed  there, 
Thou  small  amphibian  ? 

Say  !  didst  thou  sleep  on  Agamemnon's  grave, 

When  Troy's  renowned  unpleasantness  was  over  ? 
Or  did  glad  Neptune  fling  thee  from  his  cave 
When  sweet  Calypso  kissed  beside  the  wave 
Her  Spartan  lover  ? 

How  different  from  the  death  thou  livest  here 

Amid  the  gay  and  sombre,  wise  and  witty, 
With  dulcet  music  melting  on  the  ear, 
And  philosophic  speech  discoursing  clear 
In  Jersey  City  ! 

Thy  lucent  coffin  hath  a  splendid  nook  : 

Above,  with  saucer  eyes  and  claws  retractile, 
An  owl  sits  gazing  with  an  anxious  look  ; 
Around  are  gems  ;  beneath,  that  limestone  spook, " 
The  ptereodactyl. 

Who  pinioned  thy  grotesque  and  uncouth  frame 
Within  the  sunshine  of  this  golden  chamber  ? 
Is  this  the  fountain  whence  the  nectar  came  ? 
Or  is  it  star-born — this  undying  flame 
Which  men  call  amber  ? 

Or  is  this  jewel  formed  of  sweet  tears  shed 
By  fair  Heliades — Apollo's  daughters — 


ON   SKATES.  9! 

When  their  rash  brother  down  the  welkin  sped, 
Lashing  his  father's  sun  team,  and  fell  dead 
In  Euxine  waters  ? 

Splay-footed  sprawler  from  Triassic  seas  ; 
O,  tawny  cousin  of  the  ichthyosaurus — 
What  sportive  sister  of  Hesperides, 
In  the  ambrosia  of  celestial  trees, 
Embalmed  thee  for  us  ? 


LOVE  ON  SKATES. 

The  ball  is  up  !  The  flag  is  out ! 

The  skaters  are  away, 
And  o'er  the  ice  in  merry  bout 

They  cut  the  snowy  spray. 
Come,  Joe,  let's  join  the  jolly  throng 
And  swell  the  song  and  help  along 

The  carnival  to-day. 

And  while  you  trim  your  runners,  Joe, 

And  tarry  here  a  trice, 
I'll  tell  what  stirred  my  pulses  so 

Last  winter  on  the  ice  ; 
For  oh  !  it  was  a  glorious  night, 
And  hearts  were  light  and  eyes  were  bright 

That  evening  on  the  ice. 

And  every  face  was  gay  and  young, 

And  all  its  colors  wore, 
And  songs  were  sung  and  laughter  rung 

From  merry  shore  to  shore. 
The  jewel  stars  begemmed  the  night, 
And  Luna  flung  her  liquid  light 

Along  the  level  floor. 


92          THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

A  maiden  sought  the  skater's  prize — 

A  queen  beyond  compare — 
I  saw  her  chase  in  mirrored  skies 

The  star  that  floated  there, 
Then  balance  on  the  glancing  glaive, 
And  poise  above  the  frozen  wave 

Like  swallow  on  the  air. 

A  steel  shod  Juno,  fair  and  fleet, 

As  any  season  brings, 
With  music  in  her  airy  feet 

She  cut  the  mazy  rings  ; 
And  now  and  then  she  deigned  to  show 
Beneath  her  rosy  furbelow 

The  flash  of  sandal  wings. 

I  dodged  the  scurrying  host  to  make 

A  schedule  of  her  charms, 
When  sweeping  round  and  round  the  lake 

Unconscious  of  alarms, 
With  many  a  whirl  and  curve  and  curl 
Among  the  crowd,  the  giddy  girl 

Fell  plump  into  my  arms  ! 

I  felt  an  impulse  to  pursue 

As  from  my  grasp  she  slid  ; 
I  marked  what  dancing  eyes  of  blue 

Her  jaunty  jockey  hid  ; 
She  gasped  a  word  and  dashed  away, 
And  in  a  breath  the  tricksy  fay 

Was  lost  the  throng  amid. 

I  sought  in  vain  ;  that  evening,  Jo, 

The  ice  began  to  melt ; 
And  now  the  whirling  New  Year  snow 


UNCI,E  SAM  TO  PRINCE;  FUSHIMI  OF  JAPAN.  93 

Reminds  me  how  I  felt, 
And  how  her  blushes  went  and  catne, 
As  scarlet  as  the  sash  of  flame 

That  fluttered  at  her  belt ! 

Come  on  !  my  heart  is  all  adrift 

Whene'er  I  turn  that  way  ; 
Come  on  !  we'll  find  her  coursing  swift 

Across  the  crystal  bay  ; 
I  know  she's  hovering  around  about 
Or  darting  in  or  dashing  out 

The  carnival  to  day. 


UNCLE  SAM  TO  PRINCE  FUSHIMI  OF  JAPAN. 
DURING  His  VISIT  TO  THE  UNITED  STATES — 1887. 

Cordial  welcome,  Prince  Fushinii  ! 
Didn't  think  you'd  call  to  see  me. 
I've  been  kind  o'  wonderin'  whethei 
You'd  come  round  this  roastin*  weather, 
Fierier  and  fiercer  than  a 
Burning  cone  at  Fusiana. 
Come  right  in,  for  Adam  Badeau 
Told  me  of  your  boss,  Mikado. 

Hail  and  welcome,  Prince  Fushinii  ! 
'Tis  a  visit  that  I  deem  a 
Lasting  honor.     How  I  wish  I 
Had  a  fleet  like  Mitsu  Bishi ; 
And,  for  coin,  I'd  like  to  take  a 
Mint  like  yours  at  old  Osaka — 
That  is  where  I'm  told  the  bank  is 
Of  the  Oriental  Yankees. 


94  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Myriad  welcomes,  Prince  Fushimi  ! 
Japs  are  practical  as  dreamy. 
Are  our  Washington  girls  pretty 
As  the  maids  of  Hokoveti  ? 
Since  you  landed,  have  you  fed,  O, 
As  you  used  to  feed  in  Yeddo  ? 
And  does  beverage  de  Milwaukee 
Reach  the  spot  like  fragrant  saki  ? 

Hail,  and  au  revoir  Fushimi ! 
Dreadful  glad  you  came  to  see  me. 
1/et  us  act  like  next  door  neighbors, 
Joining  hearts  and  hopes  and  sabers, 
As  a  sort  of  Yankee  notion 
Touching  colors  o'er  the  ocean  ; 
Eastern  mood  and  Western  manner, — 
Starry  flag  and  golden  banner  ! 


A  SALT-SEA  SPECTER. 

At  anchor  in  Peconic  Bay 

Off  Shelter  Island's  haunted  shore, 
Our  trim  yacht,  Falcon,  throbbing  lay 

One  summer  night  in  '84, 
And  champed  her  bit,  as  if  to  say, 

"  Let  us  begone  !  I'll  wait  no  more  !  " 

Upon  a  battered  wreck  hard  by 
I  heard  a  gruesome  owlet  call ; 

Down  from  the  shrouds  a  smothered  cry 
Of  elfin  terror  seemed  to  fall ; 

No  speck  of  light  was  in  the  sky 
And  mystery  was  over  all. 


A  SAI/T-SEA  SPECTER.  95 

Hearing  a  splash  I  raised  a  shout : 

"  Ho  !  mermaid  of  the  island-sea  ! 
'Tis  years  since  thou  hast  ventured  out 

Where'er  thy  sunless  caverns  be. 
'Come  hither  !  Dance  a  goblin  bout 

And  sing  a  festal  song  to  me." 

I  spoke,  and  lo  !  from  out  the  foam, 

Bearing  a  looking-glass  and  fan, 
A  mermaid  rose  ;  a  coral  comb 

Adown  her  seaweed  tresses  ran  ; 
She  touched  my  arm  and  sighed  "  Ho  hum  ! 

'Tis  ages  since  I've  seen  a  man  !  " 

"  Why  so  ?  "  I  asked.     "  Because,"  she  cried, 

"  The  girls  ashore  so  overdress, 
We  scorn  to  emulate  their  pride  ; 

And,  though  I  wear  a  good  deal  less, 
My  notion  of  a  taste  so  snide 

I  dare  not  venture  to  express  !  " 

Upon  my  hand  she  laid  her  own  : 

"  The  glass  and  comb  were  well  enough, 

And  cestus  of  the  virgin  zone, — 
But  oh  !  the  silks  and  satin  stuff, 

The  feathers,  ring  with  priceless  stone, — 
We've  no  rich  fathers,  and  it's  rough  ! 

"  Our  crimps  are  also  rather  faint ; 

The  Cleveland  bang  with  dextrous  fin 
We  twist  in  bandoline  and  paint 

And  tie  it  up  in  strips  of  tin, 
But  water's  wet ;  by  tea-time  'taint 

Fit  to  receive  a  sardine  in  ! 


THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER   POEMS. 

"  I  hate  such  artifice."     Her  neck 
Was  all  unclraped  and  white  as  foam  ; 

She  waved  her  fair  arms  towards  the  wreck 
And  smiled  on  me  and  whispered  "  Come  ! 

Then  sprang  from  off  the  Falcon's  deck 
And  sought  again  her  moistened  home. 

I  did  not  follow  her.     Hard  by 

I  heard  a  gruesome  owlet  call ; 
Down  from  the  shrouds  a  smothered  cry 

Of  elfin  terror  seemed  to  fall. 
No  speck  of  light  was  in  the  sky 

And  mystery  was  over  all. 


THANKSGIVING. 

"  Let  Earth  give  thanks,"  the  Parson  said, 
And  then  the  Proclamation  read. 

"  Give  thanks  for  what  ?    An'  what  about  ?  " 

Asked  Simon  Soggs  when  church  was  out. 

"  Give  thanks  for  what  ?     I  don't  see  why  ; 

The  rust  got  in  and  spiled  my  rye, 

An'  grass  wa'n't  half  a  crop,  and  corn 

All  wilted  down  and  looked  forlorn, 

And  bugs  just  gobbled  my  pertaters — 

The  what-you-call-'em-I/ineaters. 

So  much  tobacker  all  around 

We  let  it  rot  upon  the  ground. 

Onless  a  war  should  interfere 

Wheat  won't  fetch  half  a  price  this  year  ; 

I'll  hev  to  giv  it  away  I  reckon  !  " 

"  Good  for  the  poor  !  "  exclaimed  the  Deacon, 


THANKSGIVING. 

"  Give  thanks  fer  what  ?  "  asked  Simon  Soggs, 
"  Fer  freshets  carry  in'  off  my  logs  ? 
Fer  Dobbin  goin'  blind  last  week  ? 
Fer  two  cows  drownded  in  the  creek  ? 
Fer  ten  dead  sheep  ?  "  asked  Simon  Soggs. 

The  Deacon  said,  "  You've  get  yer  hogs  !  " 

"  Give  thanks  ?    An'  Jane  and  baby  sick  ? 
I  e'en  most  wonder  ef  Ole  Nick 
Aint  runnin'  things  !  " 

The  Deacon  said  : 
"  Simon  !  your  people  might  be  dead  ! " 

"  Give  thanks  !  "  said  Simon  Soggs  again, 

"  Jest  look  at  what  a  fix  we're  in  ! 

The  country  rushin'  to  the  dogs 

At  race-hoss  speed  !  "  said  Simon  Soggs. 

"  A  year'n  a  half  ago  we  went 

An'  'lected  'nother  President, 

But  now,  no  man  knows  what  to  do, 

Or  how  is  how  or  who  is  who. 

The  Pres'dent  tries  to  do  his  best, — 

But  look  at  how  they  act  out  West ! 

Some  votes  too  little,  some  too  much, 

Some  not  at  all— it  beats  the  Dutch  ! 

The  nigger  skulks  in  Night's  disguise 

And  hooks  a  chicken  ez  he  flies, 

The  labrin-men  is  up  in  arms 

And  fill  the  land  with  wild  alarms, 

And  millions  mad  ez  they  kin  be  ; 

Say,  Deacon,  wait  an'  you  will  see 

That  'fore  another  Pres'dent's  in 

We'll  have  a  gen'ral  fight  agin. 


THE   PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Give  thanks  fer  what,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  " 

The  Deacon  answered,  sad  and  slow — 

"  Kneel  right  straight  down  in  all  the  muss 

An'  thank  God  that  it  aint  no  wuss  !  " 

OPEN  LETTER  TO  BRIGHAM  YOUNG, 

O,  chief  of  the  Sandy  Seraglio  ! 

O,  boss  of  the  twenty  old  cats  ! 
I'm  sorry  for  you,  and  I'll  tell  you 

How  you  can  get  rid  of  your  spats  ; 
Your  rows  with  your  wives  and  the  nation 

Will  end  with  this  one  stroke  of  wit : 
Indulge  in  a  new  revelation — 
That's  it! 

Don't  play  the  cheap  martyr  in  prison  ; 

Don't  speak  of  rebellion  as  "  grand  ;  " 
Don't  prattle  of  "  Darkness  arisen  ;  " 

Don't  talk  about  quitting  the  land  ; 
Don't  grumble  of  slander  and  libel, 

But  learn  a  more  excellent  way — 
Hatch  out  a  new  leaf  for  your  Bible 
And  stay. 

Address  all  the  Saints  and  say  "  Some  im- 

Provement  takes  place,  I  suppose  ; 
I've  looked  through  the  Urim  and  Thummim 

And  new  rules  they  plainly  disclose  ; 
The  Elders  henceforth  will  be  lonely 

Divorced  from  companions  for  life, 
For  'tis  writ  that  a  man  can  have  only 
One  wife. 


OFF  VERA   CRUZ. 

"  Sid  Rigdon  shows  up  as  the  Prophet, 

And  says  '  it's  removin  the  cuss  ' — 

That  '  Providence  probably  saw  fit 

To  harass  the  early  saints  thus,' 

But  one  wife's  an  awful  affliction, 

And  two  is  too  much  for  a  Saint ; 

Nonsensical  ?  It's  my  conviction 
It  ain't !" 

O,  chief  of  the  alkaline  harem  ! 

Behold  the  trail  out  of  the  wood  ! 
I  send  you  this  friendly  alarum — 

Here's  hoping  you'll  do  as  you  should  ! 
Set  grass-widows  off  with  a  pension, 

Send  children  to  Government  schools — 
Polygamy  ? — It's  the  invention 
Of  fools  ! 


OFF  VERA  CRUZ. 
A  BAiyivADK. 

O,  bounteous  life  that  came  to  me 
Where  Earth  her  every  grace  arrays 

In  cactus,  palm  and  orange  tree, 
And  all  her  opulence  displays 
Within  the  Tropic's  tangled  maze  ; 

Where  Orizaba's  peak  of  snow 
Nods  to  Malinche  through  the  haze 

Beyond  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

We  left  the  land  upon  the  lee, — 
Its  beaches  brown  and  peaceful  bays — 

And  drifted  silent  down  the  sea 
Where  gannet  dives  and  dolphin  plays, 


100  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

Where  the  physalia  sets  her  stays 
And  purple  sail  in  splendid  show, 

Reflecting  all  the  sunset's  rays 
Upon  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

O,  tropic  night !  Thy  glories  be 

Responsive  Nature's  fairest  phase, 
Bver  the  zephyr  wanders  free, 

And  the  inconstant  planet  strays  ; 

Canopus  sings  his  song  of  praise  ; 
New  constellations  rise,  and,  lo  ! 

The  southern  crucifix  ablaze 
Above  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  ! 

L'  ENVOI  ! 
Serene  delights  and  pleasant  ways  ! 

How  life  is  sweetened  by  the  flow 
Of  silver  nights  and  golden  days 

Above  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  ! 


A  HERO  OF  BENNINGTON, 
AT  THE  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION— 1875. 

"  My  granther  fit  at  Benningtown," 

The  old  man  proudly  said, 
As  tears  his  furrowed  cheeks  ran  down 

And  drooped  his  silvered  head. 

"  He  fought  at  Benningtoii,  you  say  ?  " 

Jo  Hawley  asked  him,  "  we 
Shall  celebrate  the  fight  to-day — 

Old  hero,  come  with  me  !  " 

"  Thy  grandsire  fought  at  Benningtoii  ?  " 
Repeated  General  Grant ; 


A   HERO   OF 

"  Take  thou  the  head  ;  thou  seemst  as  one 
Whom  Providence  hath  sent." 

"  Sit  on  the  stand  !  Ride  in  the  'bus  !  " 

Cried  grateful  General  Banks  ; 
"  O,  patriot  sire,  come  marshal  us 
As  leader  of  our  ranks  !  " 

He  in  a  crimson  carriage  grand 

The  brave  procession  led  ; 
He  sat  conspicuous  on  the  stand  ; 

He  in  the  tent  was  fed. 

When  the  mock  Hessians  charged  on  Stark 

He  raised  a  battle  cry  ; 
With  wrath  his  eager  face  grew  dark 

And  fire  was  in  his  eye. 

Then  Sherman  said,  "  Thou  hero  hale, 

'Tis  Freedom's  jubilee  ; 
I  prithee  tell  us  now  the  tale 
The  veteran  told  to  thee." 

The  old  man  slowly  rose  and  said 

"  I've  hearn  my  granther  tell 
How  gallant  Baum  the  redcoats  led 

And  gin  the  Rebels well 

"  The  rebel  force  was  two  to  one  ; 

Baum  knocked  'em  in  a  heap  ! 
O,  how  the  Yankees  cut  an'  run  ! — 

Yis  !  Cut  an'  run  like  sheep  ! 

"  My  granther  fit  at  Benningtown — 

Fit  in  the  Tory  ranks, 
And — "  then  he  was  escorted  down 

By  stalwart  General  Banks. 


IG2  THE  TROPHECY  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

As  he  was  hustled  from  the  stand 
They  heard  the  hero  say 

"  'Taint  so  !  We  whaled  the  Rebel  band- 
Old  Stark  was  licked  that  day  !  " 


REPLY  TO  BISHOP  COXE.25 

O,  man  of  God  !  this  crime  deplore  ! 
Why  should  thy  brother's  blood  outpour 
In  hateful  tides  of  turbid  gore 
From  Dardanelles  to  Danube's  shore  ? 

Be  still— be  still ! 

Blaspheme  no  more  ! 

God  help  the  babes  !  God  bless  the  wives  ! 
Shame  on  the  priests  that  whet  the  knives  ! 
Shame  on  the  church  whose  altar  thrives 
By  wrecking  peaceful  peasants'  lives  ! 

Be  still— be  still ! 

'Tis  Hell  that  drives  ! 

How  long,  O  Lord,  before  thy  shrine 
Shall  men  pray  "  Vengeance,  God,  is  Thine," 
Then  worship  Moloch  as  divine, 
And  drink  the  battle's  bloody  wiiie  ? 
Be  still— be  still 
O,  heart  of  mine  ! 

Forward  the  Race  !  Let  creeds  impart 
No  barb  of  poison  to  the  dart 
That  flies  from  Mammon's  bow,  or  start 
Tasmanian  devils  in  the  heart ! 

Be  still— be  still ! 

Love  sits  apart. 


THE  PRESIDENT'S  AU  REVOIR.  103 

"  God  bless  the  Czar  ?  "  Beneath  his  eye 
Poor  Poland  writhes  and  cannot  die, 
And  as  the  bandit's  minions  ply 
The  knout,  to  Heaven  ascends  her  cry. 

Be  still— be  still ! 

O,  infamy  ! 

Put  up  the  sword  !  And  ne'er  again 
I/et  the  grim  Crusade's  fiery  train 
Drag  o'er  the  earth  its  awful  stain — 
'Tis  branded  with  the  curse  of  Cain  ! 

Be  still— be  still  ! 

I/et  Mercy  reign. 

Come  Holy  Peace  !  May  Muscovite 
And  Moslem  end  their  wretched  fight ; 
Women  with  songs  shall  hail  the  light, 
And  children  flock  with  flags  of  white — 

Be  still— be  still— 

O,  sacred  sight ! 


THE  PRESIDENT'S  AU  REVOIR. 
SUMMER  VACATION. 

Farewell,  ye  goddess  of  the  Dome, 

Upon  your  dizzy  height ; 
Farewell,  ye  temporary  home 

Which  they  have  painted  White. 
Farewell  !  Upon  the  wings  of  steam 

I  go  where  none  intrudes, 
To  fling  the  fly  *  along  the  stream 

In  Adirondack  woods. 


104  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Farewell !  Where  life  is  newly  born 

And  brooks  are  murmuring, 
I'll  sit  upon  the  porch  at  morn 

And  hear  the  thrushes  f  sing  ; 
Oho  !  the  red  deer  £  I  will  slay, 

And,  in  my  merry  moods, 
I'll  make  the  panther  §  stand  at  bay 

In  Adirondack  woods. 

Where  Nature's  beauties  most  abound 

Will  I  the  salmon  ||  snare, 
As  soothing  visions  ^[  gather  round 

My  nightly  pillow  there. 
And  when  we  meet  again,  I  ween, 

Mid  Winter's  interludes, 
I'll  tell  you  what  I've  heard  and  seen 

In  Adirondack  woods. 

*Worm.  \  Woodchuck. 

t  Bullfrogs.  ||  Bullhead. 

%  Rabbits.  1f  Big  Mosquitoes. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DAUHGTER. 
A  DIALOGUE  OF  DECORATION  DAY. 

DAUGHTER : 

Papa,  I  never  understand 

How  'twas  you  had  to  go  and  fight 
Down  in  the  sultry  southern  land — 

O,  years  before  I  saw  the  light — 
A  prisoner,  too,  in  Florida, 
Where,  afterwards,  you  found  mamma. 


THE;  SOLDIER'S  DAUGHTER. 

FATHER : 

Not  understand,  my  child  ?     The  guu 

They  fired  on  Sumter  summoned  me : 
I  went  to  keep  the  nation  one  ; 

I  went  to  make  the  nation  free  ; 
I  went  and  fought  to  fix  anew 
Our  stars  within  the  field  of  blue  ! 

DAUGHTER : 

Yes,  but  mamma  was  "  rebel  born,'* 

As  laughingly  she  says  to  you, 
And  from  a  rebel  hearth  was  torn  ; 

Her  father  and  her  brother,  too, 
Grandfather  Blake  and  Uncle  Jo 
Fought  on  the  southern  side,  you  know. 

FATHER  : 
Two  good  men,  honestly  misled  ; 

They  thought  the  right  was  on  their  side. 
Poor  Jo  !  A  splendid  man,  they  said  ; 

He  fell  and  gave  one  gasp  and  died 
While  charging  in  a  battery's  jaw 
Along  the  base  of  Kenesaw. 

DAUGHTER : 

And  you  were  in  that  battle,  too  ? 

And  you  and  he  had  never  met — 
The  Gray  contending  with  the  Blue  ; 

And  you  and  he  were  there,  and  yet, — 
We  dream  those  things  we  cannot  see — 
O,  it  is  horrible  to  me  ! 

FATHER : 

My  daughter  !  Curb  your  feelings,  child  ! 
We  sorrow  that  he  died  so  young  ; 


106  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

For  lie  was  tender,  brave  and  mild, 
And  still  we  hear  his  praises  sung 
By  all  who  knew  him.    Living,  he 
A  brother  would  have  been  to  me  ! 

DAUGHTER : 
Your  brother  !  O,  the  awful  thought 

That  haunts  me  when  I  am  alone, 
That  when  at  Kenesaw  you  fought, 

Facing  each  other,  all  unknown, 
You  might  have  fired  the  shot,  you  know, 
That  pierced  the  heart  of  Uncle  Jo  ! 

FATHER : 
Be  still,  my  child  !  You  drive  me  mad  ! 

The  past  is  dead,  and  let  it  rest ! 
Each  patriot  offered  all  he  had 

To  aid  the  cause  he  loved  the  best. 
The  greatness  of  the  land  to-day 
Proves  the  Rebellion  wrong,  I  say  ! 

DAUGHTER : 
Forgive  me,  father !  Far  from  me 

The  wish  to  give  your  kind  heart  pain  ; 
But  why  need  any  killing  be 

When  what  has  been  may  be  again  ? 
For  every  war,  papa,  you  know, 
Has  men  like  you  and  Uncle  Jo  ! 

FATHER : 
Right !  right,  my  child,  beyond  your  ken  ! 

Warfare  is  cruel  and  accurst ! 
Of  all  the  "  settlements  "  of  men 

The  gage  of  battle  is  the  worst. 


REFLECTIONS.  107 

Better  draw  lots  and  shake  the  dice 
And  save  the  sanguinary  price  ! 

DAUGHTER : 

Papa  !  Then  how  can  battle's  din 

For  men  of  sense  have  any  charms, 
Unless  the  right  is  sure  to  win  ? 

How  can  they  madly  rush  to  arms, 
Knowing  what  always  will  befall — 
The  loss  of  much — the  risk  of  all  ? 

FATHER : 

I  do  not  know.     A  game  of  chance 

Is  every  victory  of  the  blade. 
A  battle  is  a  demon's  dance, 

Where  Justice  skulks  in  masquerade. 
Caprice  is  empire  of  the  fight ; 
For  Wrong  is  strong  if  Might  is  right. 

O,  that  the  world  were  wiser  grown  ! 

For  then  would  human  love  bear  fruit ; 
Blind  hate  would  for  its  sins  atone, 

And  combatants  would  substitute 
For  shot  and  shell  the  potent  word, 
And  Arbitration  for  the  sword  ! 

REFLECTIONS. 

A  late  July  goes  glimmering  by  on  the  wings  of  a  solar  beam, 
And  its  offset  is  a  soda  fizz  or  paleocrystic  cream. 
I'd  like  to  steal  an  April  eve  and  in  its  embraces  lie, 
Or  borrow 

To-morrow 

The  morning 

Adorning 

The  brow  of  a  winter  sky. 


I08  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

The  summer  is  sweet  and  through  the  air  its  odors  are  every- 
where, 
And  Washington    flies  are  fond  and   fleet  and  Washington 

skies  are  fair  ; 
Before  the  scythe  of  the  Sun  I  writhe  and  shrivel  like  new, 

mown  hay, 
But  whether 

The  weather 

Is  hotter 

Or  what  are 

The  reasons  I  cannot  say. 


MAY  DAY. 

'Tis  May-day  morning,  and  the  sparrow's  scream 
Awakes  poor  Benedict  from  his  sunrise  dream  ; 
His  drowsy  spouse  alarms  him,  crying  '•  Love  ! 
Come  !  Wake  up !  Get  up  !  We  have  got  to  move  !  " 
I  think  'twas  Pope  who,  praising  elegance, 
Said,  "  Those  Move  easiest  who  have  learnt  to  dance  !  " 
If  this  be  true,  how  very  lucky  they 
Who've  learnt  to  shake  fantastic  toes,  to-day  ! 
A  moving  sight !  A  far  more  moving  sound  ! 
It  rends  the  sky  and  rumbles  on  the  ground  ; 
Lean  from  the  window,  lend  attentive  ear, 
Unwind  the  racket — tell  me  what  you  hear  : 
"  That  blasted  cart  is  three  hours  late  !  " 
"  A  horse  has  broke  the  garden  gate  !  " 
"  The  clock — oh  dear  !  there  !  there  it  goes  !  " 
"  The  parrot  bit  Mariar's  nose  !  " 
"  How  hot !  My  fan  !  The  wind  is  south  !  " 
11  Them  tacks  there  !  In  the  baby's  mouth  ! 
"  I'll  sue  that  man  !  "     "  You're  on  my  dress  !  " 


DO-II,!,.  109 

"  Tip  up  the  drawer  !  O  what  a  mess  !  " 

"Jest  see  them  fools  stand  there  and  gawp  !  " 

"  You  did  !  "     "•  I  didn't !  "     "  You  stop  your  yawp  !  " 

"  Come  !  Breakfast !  "     "  We'll  omit  the  grace." 

"Jane  !  Leave  the  room  !  What's  on  your  face  ?  " 

"  I've  tore  my  coat !  "     "  I've  hurt  my  hand." 

"  Where  is  my  glove  ?  "     "  Don't  you  feel  grand  ?  " 

"  Fire  !  fire  !  "     "  No,  faint' !— a  false  alarm  !  " 

"  Pa's  got  the  tongs  upon  his  arm  !  " 

"  I've  broke  my  parasol — jest  see  !  " 

"  Why,  Julia — goodness  gracious  me  !  " 

"  I  tell  you  t'ain't !  You  drive  along  !  " 

"Slam,  jam,  creak,  squeak,  ding-dong!  ding-dong! 

"  There  !  Johnny's  in  the  currant  jam  !  " 

"  You  little  wretch  !  You  little it  does  sometimes  seem 

as  if  I  would  like  to  go  to  an  insane  asylum  a  few  years 
and  rest ! " 


A  BLOODLESS  DO-ILL. 

In  their  controversial  ardor  men  will  crowd  each  other 
harder  than  at  other  times  would  seem  exactly  right, 

And  when  each  the  other  sasses,  papers  say  "  an  insult 
passes,"  and  the  parties,  on  a  sudden,  want  to  fight. 

When  Lareinty  and  Boulanger,  given  temporary  conge,  plan 

a  duel  to  obliterate  the  stain 
Of  the  epithet  of  "  coward,"  and  retire  with  pistols  toward 

the  forest  of  Meudon  beyond  the  Seine, 

See  the  foes  each  other  greeting  with  a  warm  embrace  at 
meeting  !  a  friendly  smile  while  waiting  for  the  word  ! 

See  them  shoot  their  ammunition  in  the  air — (agreed  condi- 
tion)— and  lo  !  their  blighted  honor  is  restored  ! 


110  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

But  when  Bell,  with  bumptious  manner,  faces  Blinn  of 
Indiana,  and  they  swap  a  lot  of  unassorted  names, 

And  the  man  with  landed  hobby  dares  the  Hoosier  to  the 
lobby  to  play  a  part  in  pugilistic  games, 

Though  a  nose  be  bathed  in  claret  it  is  best  to  grin  and  bear 
it,  for  'tis  better  than  a  gun  for  quenching  ire  ; 

It  is  good  for  cooling  off  in,  and  it  seldom  needs  a  coffin,  and 
the  weapon  hardly  ever  misses  fire. 


THE  KING  OF  THE  CANNIBAL  ISLANDS. 
A  DIRGE  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  His  DECEASE. 

And  so  our  royal  relative  is  dead, 

Relieved  at  last  from  gustatory  labors. 

The  white  man  was  his  choice,  but,  when  he  fed, 

He'd  sometimes  entertain  his  tawny  neighbors. 

He  worshipped,  uttering  his  "  Fee-fo-fum," 

The  goddess  of  the  epigastrium. 

And  missionaries  graced  his  festive  board, 
Solemn  and  succulent,  in  twos  and  dozens, 
And  smoked  before  their  hospitable  lord, 
Welcome  as  if  they'd  been  his  second  cousins. 
When  cold,  he  warmed  them,  as  he  would  his  kin, 
They  came  as  strangers  and  he  took  them  in. 

And  generous  !  O,  wasn't  he  !  I  have  known  him 

Exhibit  a  celestial  amiability  ; 

He'd  eat  an  enemy,  and  then  would  own  him 

Of  flavor  excellent,  despite  hostility. 

The  cruelest  captain  in  the  British  Navy 

He  buried  in  an  honorable  gravy. 


KING   OF   THE    CANNIBAL   ISLANDS. 

He  was  a  man  of  taste,  and  justice,  too  ; 
He  oped  his  mouth  for  e'en  the  humblest  sinner, 
And  three  weeks  stall-fed  an  emaciate  Jew 
Before  they  brought  him  to  the  royal  dinner. 
With  preacher-men  he  shared  his  bread  and  wallet 
And  let  them  nightly  occupy  his  pallet. 

We  grow  like  what  we  eat.     Bad  food  depresses  ; 

Good  food  exalts  us  like  an  inspiration  ; 

And  missionary  on  the  menu  blesses 

Arid  elevates  the  Fiji  population  ; 

A  people  who  for  years  saints,  bairns  and  women  ate, 

Must  soon  their  vilest  qualities  eliminate. 

But  the  deceased  could  never  hold  a  candle 

To  those  prim,  pale-faced  people  of  propriety, 

Who  gloat  o'er  gossip  and  get  fat  on  scandal — 

The  cannibals  of  civilized  society  ; 

They  drink  the  blood  of  brothers  with  their  rations, 

And  crush  the  bones  of  living  reputations. 

They  kill  the  soul ;  he  only  claimed  the  dwelling  ; 
They  take  the  sharpened  scalpel  of  surmises, 
And  cleave  the  sinews  where  the  heart  is  swelling, 
And  slaughter  Fame  and  Honor  for  their  prizes  ; 
They  make  the  spirit  in  the  body  quiver  ; 
They  quench  the  Lights.     He  only  took  the  lyiver  ! 

I've  known  some  hardened  customers,  I  wot — 
The  toughest  fellows — Pagans  beyond  question — 
I  wish  had  got  into  his  dinner-pot ; 
Although  I'm  certain  they'd  defy  digestion 
And  break  his  jaw  and  ruin  his  sesophagus 
Were  he  the  chief  of  beings  anthropophagous  ! 


112  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

How  fond  he  was  of  children  !  To  his  breast 
The  tenderest  nurslings  gained  a  free  admission  ; 
Rank  he  despised  ;  nor,  if  they  came  well-dressed, 
Cared  if  they  were  plebeian  or  patrician. 
Shade  of  Leigh  Hunt !  O  guide  this  laggard  pen 
To  write  of  one  who  loved  his  fellow  men. 


NINETEEN  HUNDRED  AND  NINETY-FIVE. 

AMERICANS  A  CENTURY   HENCE   INDULGE   IN   A  REMI- 
NISCENCE. 

Now,  papa,  tell  me  truly,  when  people  used  to  travel 

In  steamboats  and  in  railroad  cars,  on  water  and  on  land, 

Did  they  wallow  in  the  stormy  sea  and  drag  along  the  gravel, 

Like  fishes  in  the  river  or  like  lizards  on  the  sand  ? 

Confined  to  a  dead  level  they  must  have  had  a  bother 

To  keep  from  breaking  down  and  running  into  one  another. 

ANSWER  : 
They  did,  my  daughter  ;  oft  I've  heard  my  father  tell  about 

'em, 
And  how  they  used  to  jump  the  track  and  run  each  other 

down  ; 
But  with  our  levitant  balloon  we've  learned  to  do  without 

'em 

For  now  we  fly  around  the  sky  in  our  etherion, 
Like  "  Queen  Celeste,"  in  which  we  float  along  the  azure 

now, 
Five  hundred  feet  from  stem  to  stern,  and  paddles  at  the 

bow. 


NINETEEN   HUNDRED   AND   NINETY-FIVE.  1 13 

But,  Mary  dear,  some  other  things  are  quite  as  full  as 
wonder : 

They  used  to  have  a  clumsy  thing  they  called  a  "  tele- 
graph " — 

A  slow  machine  for  talk  between  the  places  far  asunder — 

Its  poles  and  wires  and  chemicals  I'm  sure  would  make  you 
laugh. 

They  hadn't  harnessed  up  the  will  nor  guessed  that  power 
was  in  it 

To  call  a  distant  friend  and  get  an  answer  in  a  minute. 

There's  telescopes — why,  look  at  ours  !— see  what  we  are  ar- 
riving at ! 

We  hail  our  neighbors  now  on  Mars  and  Mercury  and  Venus, 
We  swap  some  signals  with  them,  we  find  what  they  are 

driving  at ; 

Our  microscopes  reveal  the  ways  of  every  monad  genus, 
And  show  us  how  spontaneously  the  flea  is  generated, 
And  how  the  bugs  and  butterflies  from  nothing  are  created. 

My  child,  lean  out  the  flying  ship  ;  far  downward,  larboard- 
looking, 

You  see  the  bankrupt  blackened  shafts  whence  l/ackawaiina 
coal 

Was  spread  throughout  the  land,  to  light  and  warm  and  do 
the  cooking ; 

This  was  before  we  learned  to  bore  a  thousand-fathom  hole — 

In  every  town  a  hot  air  shaft  right  through  the  shell  of 
granite 

Draws  light  and  heat  from  out  the  inner  furnace  of  the 
planet. 

What  progress  we  have  made  !  Our  biologists  have  found 
The    "  missing  link "   of    Darwin    in    the    talking  ape   of 
Munessey  ; 


114  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

And  now  we  know  a  murderer  is  mentally  unsound — 
Instead  of  choking  him  to  death  we  doctor  him  for  lunacy, 
Our  philanthropic  scientists  have  proved  in  many  treatisees 
That  crime  is  a  disease  as  much  as  mumps  or  meningitis  is. 

At  one  time  people  used  to  kill  the  sheep  and  hogs  and 

cattle, 
And  boil  and  fry  them  on  the  fire  and  eat  them  just  like 

savages  ; 

But  now  we  have  our  patent  rotary  food-condenser  that'll 
Give  every  mouth  enough  to  eat  and  banish  hunger's  ravages. 
Pour  in  a  pint  of  nitrogen  and  mix  in  the  accoutrement 
Carbon  and  salts  in  appetizing  forms  of  human  nutriment. 

But  let  us  not  be  proud.     If  man,  aspiring  to  the  stars, 
By  his  own  will  succeeds  in  overcoming  gravitation, 
If  Brown,  who  visited  the  moon,  succeeds  in  finding  Mars, 
And  plants  among  the  asteroids  a  Yankee  signal  station, 
Our  commonplace  inventions  will  seem  tame  enough  and 

many'll 
Think  us  behind  the  times  as  we  the  folks  of  the  Centennial. 


IN  CONTRAST. 

Give  thanks  ?     Why,  yes  ;  for,  on  the  whole,  we  fly 
The  happiest  banner  underneath  the  sky  ; 
Good  wages,  food  abundant,  time  well  spent, 
With  only  Labor's  wholesome  discontent ; 
England  has  anarchy,  and  France  has  want, 
Through  Rnssia  totters  Famine's  spectre  gaunt, 
Turkey  all  covet,  and  in  Mexico 
The  pulque-factories  fill  the  land  with  woe  ; 
Italy's  sick,  and,  if  the  truth  were  known, 
There's  a  bent  pin  on  the  Bulgarian  throne. 


CHAPMAN.  115 

TO  MY  GREAT-GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S  PORTRAIT. 
1747-1894. 

Molly  Chapman — charming  Molly  ! 

Years  a  wife — a  century  sainted — 
Though  perchance  they  called  you  "  Polly  " 

When  you  had  your  picture  painted  ; 
When  they  made  your  prettiest  gown 

And  arrayed  you  in  your  smartest, 
Curled  your  hair  and  sent  to  town 

For  the  "  famous  Boston  artist." 

Molly  Chapman — laughing  Molly  ! 

Brightening  all  the  ways  of  Fairfield 
As  the  jewels  of  the  holly 

Fill  with  beauty's  grace  a  bare  field  ; 
I/ips  where  Cupid  loves  to  tipple — 

How  the  rogue  with  fervor  woos  'em  ! 
Muslin  mull  in  many  a  ripple 

Dancing  round  your  ample  bosom. 

Molly  !  Dreaming,  beaming  Molly  ! 

"  Sweet  sixteen  ?  "  I'd  guess  you  twenty  ; 
Rosy  mouth,  demure  but  jolly, 

Rich  in  kisses,  chaste  and  plenty  ; 
Brow  discreet  o'er  charms  presiding, 

All  defending  from  disaster  ; 
Hair  that  holds  the  night  in  hiding  ; 

Neck  and  shoulders  alabaster  ; 

Eyes  of  wonder — pensive  Molly  ! 

Bluer  than  the  bluest  gentian  ; 
Dreaming  of  the  great  world's  folly, 

Filled  with  pitying  apprehension 
For  the  revelers  of  the  region 


Jl6  THE   PROPHECY  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Pleasure's  hand  would  hold  the  cup  to  ; 
For  the  mischiefs, -large  and  legion, 
Your  descendants  would  be  up  to  ! 

Yet  they  tell  us— blushing  Molly— 

You,  in  far  off  days  colonial, 
'Neath  the  mistletoe  and  holly 

Tied  the  knottings  matrimonial. 
Therefore  would  we  bless  the  fillet 

So  beneficent  and  fateful, 
And,  because  we  live  to  tell  it, 

On  the  whole  we're  rather  grateful ! 

Who  was  Jedediah,  Molly  ? 

He,  obedient  to  whose  order 
Continentals  fired  a  volley 

Far  beyond  the  northern  border  ? 
Mother's  father's  father's  father — 

Years  a  phalanx  constitute  him  ; 
Half  a  thousand  now  could  gather 

Round  your  picture  and  salute  him  ! 

"  Yes  "  you  answered  ;  thank  you,  Molly  ! 

In  that  word  existence  met  us  ; 
We  should  all  be  melancholy 

If  you'd  happened  to  forget  us  ! 
Had  you  sworn  a  virgin's  vow 

We,  who  share  ancestral  bounty, 
Couldn't  drink,  as  we  do  now, 

"  To  the  belle  of  Fairfield  County  !  " 


The  fair  soubrette,  the  beauteous  blonde,  Do  Bow 
Wears  on  her  head  the  light  fantastic  tow, 


THE   DAY  WE   CELEBRATE.  117 

THE  DAY  WE  CELEBRATE. 

When  the  racket  was  begun, 

(Zip!  Clang!) 
Boys  were  hungry  for  the  fun, 

(Zip  !  Clang !) 

Quill-wheels,  crackers,  pots  and  rockets 
Started  eyeballs  from  their  sockets  ; 
We  are  thankful  it  is  done — 

(Zip  !  Clang !) 

How  the  noisy  legions  come  ! 

(Pop!  Whizz!) 
Bells  and  cannon,  fife  and  drum, 

(Pop  !  Whizz  ! ) 

Baby's  sick.     "  Pa — I'm  afraid 
She  had  too  much  lemonade — " 
Man  is  ailing — two  much  rum — 

(Pop!  Whizz!) 

Forty  buildings  are  afire  ! 

(Ding-dong  ! ) 
Flames  are  flashing  nigher — higher — 

(Ding-dong  ! ) 

But  the  boy  must  have  a  spree 
Spite  of  brands  and  ashes,  re- 
Membering  his  patriot  sire, 

(Ding-dong  ! ) 

"  Mary  shot  right  through  the  head  !  " 

(Flash  !  Bang  ! ) 
She  falls  down— is  dying  ! — dead  ! 

(Flash!  Bang!) 


Il8  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

"  Little  Joseph  didn't  know 
It  was  loaded,  Poor  Jo  !  " 
That  is  what  his  mother  sc.id. 
(Flash!  Bang!) 

SILHOUETTES— IMPROMPTU. 


DE  LANCEY  KANE. 

O,  whose  eye  hath  seen  romances, 

Losses,  gains, 
Life,  its  changes  and  its  chances, 

And  its  pains  ? 
Seen,  as  year  on  year  advances, 

Silken  skeins 
Woven  into  gossamer  fancies, 

Iron  chains  ? 

Seen  the  wildest  steed  that  prances 
Under  maddening  circumstances 

'Neath  the  reins  ? 
Seen  intoxicating  glances, 
In  delirious  giddy  dances, 
Such  as  Egypt's  such  as  France's, 

Such  as  Spain's  ? 
vSeen  the  rapture  that  entrances  ? 
Seen  affection  that  enhances 
Every  pleasure  ? 

Why,  De  Lancey's— 
Colonel  Kane's  ! 

WOODIE,  A  YOUNG  SPORTSMAN. 

,  Oh,  Woodie  !  Don't  shoot,  useless  havoc  creating — 
Like  Captain  Scott's  coon  we'll  come  clown  without  waiting  ; 


SILHOUETTES— IMPROMPTU.  Ilg 

Thy  game-bag  is  filled  with  an  endless  variety — 
The  bird  on  the  wing  and  the  bird  in  society  ; 
Yea,  sportsman  !  The  list  of  thy  victims  embraces 
The  feather-clad  duck  and  the  duck  that's  in  laces. 


COMMODORE  NICHOLSON'S  CHRISTMAS  DINNER  —  SAINT 
NICK  TO  OLD  NICK. 

My  boy,  I've  heard  your  praises  sung 

By  old  and  young  ; 
You've  taught  old  Neptune  how  to  sail 

Before  a  gale  : 
You've  learned  how  best  to  entertain 

On  land  and  main  : 
You've  wooed  the  Muses  and  they  threw 

Some  bays  to  you  ; 
You  love  the  little  girls  and  boys 

And  simple  joys, 
And  know  exactly  where  they  live, 

And  how  to  give. 
I'm  tired.     Come  here  !  Bend  down  your  back  ! 

There  !  Take  tny  pack  ! 


A  TOAST,  TO  ANNIE,  THE  SONGSTRESS. 

Here's  a  brimming  glass  to  Annie — 

And  a  salutation  meet, 
For  her  face  is  fair  and  canny 

And  her  voice  is  blithe  and  sweet. 
When  her  lip.,  a  ballad  utter 

'Tis  a  joy  to  lean  and  listen — 
There  be  gentle  hearts  that  flutter — 

There  be  tender  eyes  that  glisten  ; 


120  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

All  the  thrushes  gather  near  her 
From  the  maples  on  the  hill, 

And  the  robins  flock  to  hear  her 
And  the  larks  keep  still. 


A  LADY  WHO  WAS  A  FAMOUS  COOK. 

A  diner-out  to  query  "  whence 
Come  motives  of  benevolence  ? — 

The  heart — what  touch  expands  it  ?  " 
Replied  in  wise  but  jovial  mood, 
"  The  impulses  to  human  good 
Are  chiefly  due  to  well-cooked  food — 

Our  hostess  understands  it : 
Her  guest  reveals  his  happiest  bent, 
Rejoices  in  a  life  well-spent, 
Feels  such  complacent  self-content, 

Such  sympathy  for  sinners, 
He  swallows  scruples  and  regrets, 
Forgives  his  creditors,  forgets 
His  peccadilloes  and  his  debts 

When  he  hath  eat  her  dinners  !  " 


SiBYiy,  A  LADY  VERY  FOND  OF  FLOWERS. 

When  Sibyl,  priestess  of  Cumse, 
Told  to  Anchises'  son  his  fate, 

"  Write  not  on  fragile  leaves,"  cried  he 
"  Thy  visions  of  the  nether  gate  ; 

For  Zephyr  robs  me  of  the  prize — 

He  whirls  them  off  before  my  eyes  !  " 

Since  then,  the  witches  of  her  name 
Write  in  their  fortune-telling  bowers 


SILHOUETTES— IMPROMPTU.  121 

On  Flora's  pyramids  of  flame, 

The  leaves  transmuted  into  flowers-r- 
Upon  the  lily's  fragrant  snows 
And  petals  of  the  golden  rose. 

A  YOUNG    LADY  FOND  OF    PAINTING    AND    DEVOTED  TO 
CHARITY. 

Both  Charity  and  Art  alike  require 

The  highest  genius.     Few  know  how  to  give. 

A  misplaced  coin  upon  a  suppliant  palm 

May  burn  and  brand  that  palm  through  wretched  years. 

The  artist  hand  that  holds  the  brush  "  Relief  " 

Must  wield  it  skillfully  or  it  will  mar 

More  than  repair.     The  eye  that  guides  its  path 

Should  know  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  world, 

The  chiaroscuro  of  the  life  of  man, 

The  blended  tints  of  joy  and  hope  and  love, 

If  it  would  ope  the  door  of  Want,  and  there 

Efface  the  dismal  pictures  of  the  .poor. 

JOHN — A  FAMOUS  DISCIPLE  OF  WAI/TON. 

Kre  John  the  Fisherman  was  born 
Bold  salmon  laughed  the  rod  to  scorn, 
And  flashed  their  gold  among  the  hills  ; 
Trout,  jeering,  twinkled  down  the  rills, 
The  pickerel  with  sport  were  gay 
And  made  a  joyous  holiday. 
But  now  how  is  it  ? 

Now,  alas 

Frightened  they  hide  in  tangled  grass, 
'Neath  shady  bank  they  silent  lie 
Since  John  the  Skillful  cast  a  fly  ; 


122  THE   PROPHECY  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

In  terror  lurk  and  hold  their  breath 
Knowing  discovery  is  death, 
And  big  trout  to  their  babies  say 
"  Look  sharp  for  Fisher  John  to-day." 

A  YOUNG  SPORTSMAN,  REGINALD. 

A  maiden  strolled  down  by  the  creek 

And,  a  quail  flitting  by, 
She  warbled  "  Look  out,  little  chick, 

And  take  care  how  you  fly. 
If  Reginald  sees  you,  you're  dead  ! 

He's  adept  at  his  art ; 
He  can  hit  any  bird  in  the  head — 

Any  girl  in  the  heart !  " 

THE  FORT  AT  ST.  JOHN.26 

A  ship  arrived  in  Boston  Bay, 

Lord  De  la  Tour  commanding  it, 
Two  centuries  ago,  and  he 

To  aid  their  understanding  it, 
Exclaimed,  "  I  am  a  Huguenot ! 

And  Papists  are  attacking  me  ; 
I  want  some  soldiers,  ships  and  shot, 

If  Protestants  are  backing  me. 

A  man  of  sin,  Lord  Charnissey, 

Has  swooped  upon  my  garrison 
At  fair  St.  John,  with  cruelty 

And  rage  beyond  comparison. 
My  fearless  wife  defends  the  fort, 

Nor  mercy  seeks,  nor  lenity, 
But  Presbyterian  support 

From  Puritan  humanit}'." 


THE  FORT  AT  ST.  JOHN.  123 

The  meeting  house  they  opened  wide. 

The  Captain  told  his  narrative  ; 
And  some  inquired  for  light  to  guide 

While  some  were  more  declarative, 
At  which  the  deacon  rose  and  said, 

"  There  clearly  some  division  is  ; 
So  we  will  have  the  Bible  read 

And  see  what  its  decision  is." 

They  conned  its  lessons  and  commands, 

Its  promises  and  menaces, 
The  back  and  forth  of  Judah's  bands 

From  Malachi  to  Genesis. 
And  listening  to  the  scripture  they 

Agreed  that  pain  and  misery  '11 
Afflict  the  souls  that  disobey 

An  ordinance  of  Israel. 

And  one  upspake  :  "  Those  men  of  God, 

Of  holiness  and  mettle,  meant 
That  saints  should  never  spare  the  rod, 

But  force  a  righteous  settlement. 
For  did  not  Canaan  draw  its  sword, 

With  Ashur  days  and  Gideon  nights, 
To  wreak  the  vengeance  of  the  Lord 

Upon  the  wicked  Midianites  ?  " 

Another  cried,  "  We  are  forbid 

To  lead  a  warlike  column  on 
Not  only  by  what  Ira  did, 

But  by  the  words  of  Solomon 
Directed  to  Jehoshaphat, 

Who  honored  the  canonicals — 
The  nineteenth  chapter  settles  that — 

Verse  two,  of  Second  Chronicles." 


124  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Another  said,  "  The  Christian  swords 

Should  smite  the  heathen's  very  tents. 
We  are  the  Lord's,  and  pagan  hordes 

Are  give  for  our  inheritance. 
As  warning  folks  who  interfere 

And  swagger  in  the  way  of  us, 
Saint  Peter  clipped  the  hired  man's  ear, 

And  sent  it  down  to  Caiaphas. 

"  And  Jeremire,  don't  ye  know, 

Encouraged  Judah's  rabble  on 
To  arm  and  go,  and  fight  the  foe 

And  punish  sinful  Babylon  ? 
When  Satan  leads  his  horrid  host 

'Tis  blood  their  sin  must  wash  away 
From  Baal-gad  to  Jordan's  coast — 

See  Chapter  XII  of  Joshua." 

"  Let's  sail  this  morning  !  "  one  advised  ; 

"  Let's  stay  at  home  !  "  his  brother  said  ; 
And  each  his  own  opinion  prized 

Unmindful  what  the  otner  said. 
Three  weeks  they  argued  pro  and  con 

About  the  harried  settlement, 
While  Papists  rained  their  blows  upon 

The  fort's  beleaguered  battlement. 

At  last  relief  was  voted,  and 

A  dozen  ships  were  fitted  out, 
And  vinder  De  la  Tour's  command. 

The  expedition  flitted  out 
To  seek  the  far-off  Fundy's  shore, 

And  St.  John's  fortress,  where  a  pet 
Of  England's,  Mrs.  De  la  Tour, 

Was  fighting  on  the  parapet. 


THE)  FORT  AT  ST.   JOHN.  125 

A  courier  came.     "  Too  late  !  Too  late  ! 

The  bloody-handed  Saracen 
Has  seized  the  fort — oh,  wretched  fate  ! 

And  slain  the  captive  garrison  ! 
He  killed  your  wife,  but  gave  his  life — 

A  dastard  way  of  ending  it : 
His  lady,  who  survived  the  strife 

Is  in  the  fort  defending  it." 

He  took  the  glass  and  loud  exclaimed  ; 

"  I  see  a  lady  ! — is  it  her  ? 
O,  nominative  case  be  blamed  ! 

Detail  a  squad — I'll  visit  her  ! 
A  lovely  form  and  dancing  eye  ! 

This  fatal  contiguity ! 
The  fortress  I'll  recover  by 

My  British  ingenuity  !  " 

He  marched — a  white  flag  waved  above — 

The  widow  C.  awaiting  it ; 
He  went,  he  saw,  he  fell  in  love 

And  she  reciprocated  it. 
The  two  were  wed  ;  the  roses  bloomed 

And  breathed  their  fragrant  flattery, 
And  on  the  wedding  morning  boomed 

The  fort's  abundant  battery. 

The  widow  Charnissey  resigned 

As  their  commanding  officer, 
And  said  "  My  Lord,  I'll  march  behind 

And  make  your  toast  and  coffee,  sir  !  " 
In  Cupid's  flame  the  coldest  thaws  ; — 

How  charming  must  the  sight  have  been  ! 
They  talked  about  how  lucky  'twas 

And  how  much  worse  it  might  have  been  ! 


126  THE;  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Their  late  beloved  they  buried  deep, 

And  sadly  said  "  What  folly  was 
The  hate  that  such  a  crop  could  reap  ! 

Their  lot  how  melancholy  was  ! 
The  heart  grows  sick  with  hatred,  for 

We're  human  ;  but  to  cure  it  an 
Embrace  is  better  far  than  war, 

And  Cupid  beats  the  Puritan  !  " 


THE  MEGATHERIUM. 

APOSTROPHE  TO  THE  GIGANTIC  ARMADH,I,O  PRESERVED  IN 
WARD'S  PIASTER  CASTS. 

Hail,  thou  awful  form  !  Hail  imperial  browser ! 
Vast  similitude  of  bone  and  fatty  matter ! 
Hail !  thou  lantern-jawed  apparition,  where  the 
Dickens  didst  thou  come  from  ? 

Awe-inspiring  monster  !  Chalky  anticlinal  ! 
Stomach  like  a  walking  Heidelbergan  beer-vat ! 
Foot  a  plantigrade,  tempting  to  the  weary 
Like  a  fossil  sofa. 

Didst  thou  feed  on  ants  ?  Basketful  a  minute  ? 
Were  they  very  plenty  ?  Did  thy  ration  dwindle  ? 
Didst  become  a  glutton,  till  thy  food's  extinction 
Made  thee  kick  the  bucket  ? 

What  a  head  thou  hast  for  to  fit  a  hat  on  ! 
Full  of  brains  it  must  have  held  at  least  a  hogshead ! 
What  an  editor  thou  wouldst  have  been  to  run  the 
Psychozoic  Herald  ! 


THE  TOILER.  127 

What  a  mighty  arm,  stouter  than  a  sawlog  ! 
How  I  should  have  laughed  to  behold  thee  swing  it 
Balanced  on  thy  tail  and,  loudly  yelling  "  Whoop-la !  " 
Walloping  the  outfit ! 

Thou  hast  seen  at  least  a  million  billion  summers  ; 
Thine  old  hoofs  have  trod  Jura-Trias  mud-holes, 
O'er  Cretaceous  landscapes  rolled  thy  visual  optics 
Bigger  than  a  barrel  ! 

Did  the  glyptodon  and  the  brontosaurus 
And  the  pterodactyl  trouble  thy  dominion  ? 
vSleep  with  thee  in  Tophet  ?  Share  thy  dainty  breakfast 
Of  sulphuric  acid  ? 

Mighty  King  of  Tramps  !  Meso-Cenozoic 
Citizen  arrayed  in  nitrogen  nor  carbon, 
Welcome  !  Salutamus  !  Condescend  to  take  the 
Freedom  of  the  city  ! 


THE  TOILER. 

To  thee  my  heart  o'erflows  ! 
To  thee  who  lifted  me  from  lowest  deeps, 
And  in  thy  strong  arms  bore  me  up  the  steeps 

Where  wild  abysses  yawned  and  mountains  rose, 
Through  centuries  sin-beset  to  better  days, 

I  lift  my  grateful  praise  ! 

All  forces  pulled  me  down  ; 
The  burden  of  ancestral  weakness  hung 
About  my  neck,  the  days  when  earth  was  young 

Mantled  my  pathway  like  a  giant's  frown  ; 
Yet,  mid  the  darkness  I  beheld  thee  stand 

And  felt  thy  potent  hand. 


128  THE  PROPHECY  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

What  skill  and  courage  thine  ! 

What  blessings  to  the  famished  earth  hast  brought ! 
What  marvels  and  what  miracles  hast  wrought, 

Amending  still  creation's  rude  design  ! 
For  all  thou  didst  to  lift  and  rescue  me, 

My  loving  thanks  to  thee  ! 

What  debt  to  thee  I  owe  ! 
On  cross  and  scaffold  thou  hast  died  for  me. 
By  torch  and  fagot,  on  the  maddened  sea, 

In  blood-stained  jungle,  in  the  haunts  of  woe, 
Eager  thy  precious  love  and  life  to  give, 

That  I  and  mine  might  live  ! 

From  cave  of  troglodyte 

Thou'st  planned  our  cities  ;  from  the  hollowed  tree 
Hast  called  our  gallant  navies  to  the  sea  ; 

From  plague  and  famine,  war  and  stygian  night, 
At  anvil,  bench  and  loom  and  whirring  wheel 

Hast  built  the  commonweal ! 

For  me  thy  blood  was  shed, 

When  thou  wast  maimed  in  battle's  red  recoil  ; 
For  me  wast  tortured  on  the  rack  of  toil  ; 

For  me  the  argosies  of  Science  led  ; 
For  me  the  fangs  of  all  the  dragons  drew 

And  made  the  world  anew  ! 

Thy  works  I  glorify  ! 

For  me  thou'st  faced  the  wreck,  the  burning  mine, 
The  anarch's  torch,  Contagion's  lurid  sign, 

Saluting  thee  for  all  thy  suffering,  I 
Would  set  upon  thy  brow  a  diadem 

And  kiss  thy  garment's  hem. 


A   VISION.  129 

Before  our  days,  the  sum 

Of  all  we  prize — laws,  language,  hamlets,  marts, 
Books,  patterns,  customs,  morals,  manners,  arts, — 

Thou'st  fashioned  for  us  in  thy  martyrdom  ; 
Wherefore  let  earth  a  glad  oblation  raise, 

And  sing  a  psalm  of  praise  ! 

A  VISION. 

READ  AT  THE  MEETING  OP  THE  GRAND  ARMY,  IN  WASH- 
INGTON, 1892. 

Last  night  I  dreamt  a  dream  of  ill 
That  made  my  veins  with  terror  chill, 
And  my  poor,  quivering  heart  stand  still. 

I  dreamt  foul  Treason's  dreadful  blow 
Had  laid  the  great  Republic  low 
And  slain  it, — thirty  years  ago. 

The  old  Confederate  chief  to  me 
The  Nation's  head  appeared  to  be  ; 
Its  capital — Montgomery. 

Potomac's  pride  was  sad  to  view  ; 
For  cattle  browsed  and  grasses  grew 
In  every  spacious  avenue. 

Its  homes  were  blighted  with  decay  : 
Its  wretched  hovels  hid  from  day  ; 
Its  temples  tall  in  ruin  lay. 

Hushed  was  the  patriot's  glad  acclaim, 
For  haggard  Want  was  wed  to  Shame, 
In  mockery  of  a  hero's  name. 


I3O  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

Beneath  the  dome's  high  architrave 
An  auctioneer,  in  trappings  brave, 
Sold  on  the  block  a  helpless  slave. 

Across  the  greensward,  impotent, 
A  baleful  broken  shadow  bent — 
The  torso  of  the  monument. 

Grim  Bondage  over  all  the  land, 
From  lucent  lake  to  ocean  strand, 
Had  laid  its  paralyzing  hand. 

Labor  fought  Hunger  as  it  could  ; 
For  Wealth  withdrew  in  sullen  mood 
And  wheel  and  spindle  silent  stood. 

And  Death  held  Freedom  as  a  guest. 

In  Slavery's  shroud  her  limbs  were  dressed. 

The  asp  was  at  her  perfect  breast. 

I  dreamt,  and  struggled  with  dismay — 
The  monstrous  Ogre  on  me  lay  ; — 
I  shook  it  off— and  it  was  day  ! 

I  looked  and  saw  fair  visions  come — 
The  silver  bubble  of  the  dome, — 
And  knew  that  Freedom  had  a  home  ! 

I  saw  yon  finished  shaft  immersed 
In  radiance  stand — the  golden  burst 
Of  sunrise  touched  its  summit  first. 

With  color  all  the  air  was  bright, 
For  blossoms,  blue  and  red  and  white, 
Had  climbed  the  halyards  in  the  night ! 

I  heard  the  drum's  exultant  rout — 

I  seized  a  flag  and  shook  it  out 

And  shouted  to  the  answering  shout  : 


SONG  OFTHKSII.KT.OOM.  131 

"  Hurrah  !  See  mighty  justice  win  ! 

Columbia's  sons  are  all  akin  ; 

The  homestead's  safe  !  Come  in  !  Come  in  ! 

•'  Come  in  and  rest,  ye  worn  and  scarred  ; 
A  world's  applause  is  your  reward — 
Freedom's  exultant  body-guard ! 

"  Come  bind  again  her  virgin  zone 
And  sit  beside  her  burnished  throne — 
Her  opulent  halls  are  all  your  own  !  ", 


SONG  OF  THE  SILK  LOOM. 

I'm  busy  all  day — 

I'm  busy  all  day — 

The  work  is  but  play — 
The  work  is  but  play — 

The  wages  of  toil—; 

The  wages  of  toil — 
A  spoonful  of  oil — 
A  spoonful  of  oil — 

My  masters  may  plan — 
My  masters  may  plan — 
I'm  robbing  no  man — 
I'm  robbing  no  man — 

Fatigue  I  ne'er  feel — 

Fatigue  I  ne'er  feel — 

My  muscles  are  steel — 
My  muscles  are  steel — 

And  much  can  endure — 
And  much  can  endure — 


132  THE   PROPHECY  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

I  work  for  the  poor — 
I  work  for  the  poor — 

Their  homes  I  adorn — 
Their  homes  I  adorn — 
In  tints  of  the  morn — 
In  tints  of  the  morn — 

Their  children  I  fold — 
Their  children  I  fold — 
In  raiment  of  gold — 
In  raiment  of  gold — 

Their  wives  I  array — 
Their  wives  I  array — 
In  garniture  gay — 
In  garniture  gay — 

Like  drapery  seen — 

Like  drapery  seen — 

On  duchess  and  queen — 
On  duchess  and  queen — 

I  blessings  insure — 

I  blessings  insure — 

I  work  for  the  poor — 
I  work  for  the  poor — 

I  work  with  the  best — 
I  work  with  the  best — 
And  ask  for  no  rest— 
And  ask  for  no  rest — 

I  cheerfully  sing — 

I  cheerfully  sing — 

The  bobbin  I  fling  — 
The  bobbin  I  fling— 


THE  BEST  GOVERNMENT.  133 

It's  touch  is  aglow — 
It's  touch  is  aglow — 

With  roses  and  lo — 

With  roses  and  lo — 

All  over  the  room — 
All  over  the  room — 

The  warp  is  abloom — 

The  warp  is  abloom — 

I  much  can  endure — 
I  much  can  endure — 

I  work  for  the  poor — 

I  work  for  the  poor — 


THE  BEST  GOVERNMENT. 

In  far  Missouri's  Council  Hall 

The  Hon'ble  Nicholas  Price  arose — 
'Twas  a  sultry  day  in  the  later  fall, 

When  the  first  day's  session  crept  to  a  close  ; 
They  paused  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say, 

And  he  said,  with  aspect  sad  and  stern 
(As  if  it  had  troubled  his  mind  all  day), 

"  I  move  that  the  House  do  now  adjourn  !  " 

It  did.     When  next  day  drew  to  an  end, 

The  Hon'ble  Nicholas  Price  arose 
With  wrathfvil  mien,  as  if  to  defend 

His  country  against  her  hated  foes. 
He  lifted  his  quivering  hand  on  high 

And  unto  the  Speaker  was  seen  to  turn, 
And  he  shouted  (a  tear  in  his  pensive  eye) 

"  I  move  that  the  House  do  now  adjourn  !  " 


134  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

So  day  by  day,  and  week  by  week, 

The  Hon'ble  Nicholas  Price  was  there  ; 
The  members  smiled  when  he  rose  to  speak, 

For  he  always  had  such  an  injured  air. 
He  waived  his  arms  and  shook  his  head 

And  for  social  sympathy  seemed  to  yearn, 
And  he  said  ('twas  all  he  ever  said) 

"  I  move  that  the  House  do  now  adjourn  !  " 

His  soul  was  happy  in  that  one  plaint ; 

And  his  constituents  rose  and  said 
"  Our  member  ain't  any  slouch,  he  ain't !  " 

And  they  gave  him  a  cane  with  a  golden  head. 
His  brain  was  big  with  affairs  of  state  ; 

With  high  ambition  he  seemed  to  burn  ; 
But  he  cried  (perhaps  he  was  truly  great) 

"  I  move  that  the  House  do  now  adjourn  !  " 

A  teacher  was  he  in  the  Fabian  school  ; 

In  the  pulpit  of  Laissez  faire  the  priest ; 
He  held  to  the  homeopathic  rule  : 

"  The  physic  is  best  that  physics  least." 
Perchance  'twas  wise  that  thus  he  sped 

The  lesson  we're  all  of  us  slow  to  learn, 
In  saying  (it  needs  to  be  often  said) 

"  I  move  that  the  House  do  now  adjourn  !  " 

A  SAY  ON  MAN. 

Awake  St.  Lager  !  Leave  all  idle  camps 
To  mad  perdition — and  the  pride  of  tramps  ; 
Let  us  (since  thou  wilt  earn,  when  law  allows, 
Thy  bread  by  sweat  of  other  people's  brows) 
Bxpatiate  free  o'er  all  the  realm  of  work, — 
A  mighty  maze,  attractive  to  a  shirk. 


A   SAY   ON   MAN.  135 

Let  us  go  bellowing  thro  this  foamy  field 
And  see  what  lives  of  laziness  can  yield  ; 
Give  Labor  holiday,  scorn  Hunger's  whips 
And  snatch  the  biscuit  from  the  children's  lips  ; 
Be  sober  when  we  may,  quaff  what  we  can, 
And  spurn  the  ways  of  Vauderbilt  to  man. 

Beneath  thy  red  flag,  Saint  of  the  Commune  ! 

The  fool  begins  his  bloody  bout  too  soon  ; 

Crazed  to  the  core,  he  in  a  war  engages 

And  smites  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  wages  ! 

Wisdom  observes,  with  no  superfluous  clack, 

A  handcar  or  a  comet  fly  the  track, 

The  death  of  planet  or  potato-bug, 

And  now  an  ocean  drained  and  now  a  mug. 

Holes  spring  eternal  in  the  human  purse  ; 

Man  hopes,  and  strikes,  and  goes  from  bad  to  worse  ; 

Will  wealth  flow  freely  to  the  Anarch's  wand  ? 

Will  angry  words  make  larger  the  demand  ? 

Is  wage  not  measured  by  supply  of  skill  ? 

Will  water  volunteer  to  run  up  hill  ? 

In  work,  in  steady  work,  all  honor  lies  ; 
The  best  man  ever  has  a  chance  to  rise  ; 
If  plucky,  there  need  be  no  looking  back 
For  him  who  wheels  a  barrow  down  the  track  ; 
The  trackman  as  a  brakeman  soon  appears  ; 
Brakemen  are  stokers  ;  stokers  engineers  ; 
The  engineers  become  conductors  then, 
And  use  their  wits  directing  other  men  ; 
Conductors  persevere  in  the  ascent 
And  end,  if  worthy,  in  the  management. 
Employee  and  employer,  how  allied  ! 
What  thin  partitions  brain  from  brawn  divide  ! 


136  THE   PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whale 
Whose  body  credit  is,  and  cash  the  tail. 

George  Henry,  who  attacks  our  equal  tax, 

Should  con  these  truths  and  tread  in  Wisdom's  tracks 

All  land  is  worthless  save  to  prescient  men  ; 

All  profit  waiteth  for  the  prophet's  ken  ; 

All  capital  is  thrift,  whose  savings  grow  ; 

All  luck  is  foresight  which  he  does  not  know  ; 

All  wealth,  frugality,  which  few  have  had  ; 

All  partial  mob-law,  universal  bad  ; 

Though  Coxey's  still  at  last,  and  Homestead  quiet, 

This  truth  is  clear,  whatever  riz  was  riot. 

OUR  FLAG. 

"  Haul  down  the  starry  flag  ?  " 
Yea,  if  unfurled  by  Brag  ! 

Yea,  if  thieves  hung  it 
Over  a  robbers'  lair  ! 
Yea,  if  on  alien  air 

Cowards  have  flung  it ! 

"  Under  it  Perry  fought !  " 
Sure  !  shall  those  dearly  bought 

Folds  beatific 
Be  used  to  plunder  weak 
Islanders  in  the  bleak 

Middle  Pacific  ? 

"  Under  it  Porter  sailed." 
True,  but  he  would  have  jailed 

Jingo  and  Yahoo 
If  the}'  had  crossed  his  keel 
When  they  conspired  to  steal 

Little  Oahu ! 


CROOK  AND  THE  APACHES— 1887.  137 

"  Cheers  for  old  Freedom's  flag!  " 
Demagogues  use  the  gag 

Fooling  the  voters  ; 
Profits  and  politics 
Hiding  the  huckster  tricks 

Of  the  "promoters  !  " 

"  Hurrah  for  liberty  !  " 
Ah,  our  disgrace  may  be 

Found  in  the  story  ! 
Hypocrite  cries  deceive, 
While  Mammon's  touch  shall  leave 

Stains  on  Old  Glory  ! 


CROOK  AND  THE  APACHES— 1887. 

The  caroling  cowboys,  each  mounted  upon  a  mo- 
Ivasses  and  mud-colored  mule  (for  "  economo  ") 
Scour  Arizona  to  capture  Geronimo. 

The  chief  has  eluded.     They've  lassoed  and  buried  an 
Indian  or  two,  that  were  known  to  be  very  dan- 
Gerous  marauders,  by  order  of  Sheridan. 

Report  of  a  massacre— straightway  out  goes  a 
Command  to  the  camp  at  the  Grand  Alamosa 
To  send  up  a  squad  to  defend  Tularosa. 

Crook  forwards  the  order,  and  then  he  expects  a  co- 
Adjutor  there  will  not  let  redskins  vex  a  co- 
Lonial  settlement  down  in  New  Mexico. 

Result :  Forty  scalps,  all  of  hues  the  most  various  ; 
And  many  rough  mounds  in  a  region  malarious, 
Where  earns  the  war  sexton  his  living  precarious. 


138  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

We'd  not  like  to  be  the  frontiersman  who  snatches 
Cat-naps  o'er  his  gun  till  unguarded  he  catches 
His  foe.     But  then,  who'd  like  to  be  the  Apaches  ? 


A  WORD  FOR  THE  KANAKAS. 
ZEBULUN  BAXTER  TALKS  TO  HIMSELF  (1894). 

Ive  read  the  Honeyluly  news 

Thets  printed  in  our  weekly  paper, 
And  blush  thet  Uncle  Sam  should  choose 

To  cut  up  sech  a  crooked  caper  : 
To  grab  them  islands  in  the  sea 

And  coolly  call  it  honest  dealin  ! 
Why,  neighbor,  it  appears  to  me 

The  question  is,  is  stealin  stealin  ? 

Ive  heared  about  "  the  pagan  pest," 

The  "  dreadful  crimes,"  the  "  pallis  revils," 
And  how  her  Magistys  possest 

Of  two  extremely  lively  devils  ; 
But  we  know  all  the  vices  ;  let 

Our  toughest  hoodlums  loose  a  minit 
Theyd  paint  the  sky  bloodred  ;  I  bet 

Queen  Lilywalky  wouldnt  be  in  it ! 

But  spose  her  vices  air  above 

The  everidge  ;  spose  the  throne  is  tainted ; 
And  spose  the  devils  spoken  of 

Air  twice  es  black  es  they  air  painted  ; 
What  consequence  is  that  while  she 

Is  to  our  manliness  appealin  ? 
Shant  we  return  her  propetty  ? 

Whoever  tis,  aint  stealiu  stealin  ? 


THE   RHINE.  139 

Say  !  spose  yer  neighbor  is  a  crank, 

Or  holds  a  creed  you  dont  believe  in  ; 
Then  spose  you  go  an  rob  his  bank 

An  make  it  yer  excuse  for  thievin  ; 
An  spose,  wen  ketched,  you  up  an  plead 

You  robbed  im  cause  he  warnt  a  Christian, 
You  spose  twould  justify  the  deed  ? 

Is  stealin  stealin  ?  thats  the  question. 

Youd  say — so  mighty  avaricious — 

"  The  loot  is  in  my  hands  de  facto  " 
(French  for  dishonest)  and  too  vicious 

The  owner  is  to  give  it  back  to  ! 
So  this  Highwayman  govment  says 

While  all  its  pirate  bells  air  pealin. 
But  let  it  dread  the  comin  days — 

Fer  most  folks  think  thet  stealins  stealin  ! 


THE  RHINE. 

Far  up  the  river  southward  bound, 
Through  vistas  of  enchanted  ground  ; 
The  hills,  with  feudal  castles  crowned, 

Wear  mantles  of  the  verdant  vine  ; 
Along  the  wave  trip  fairy  bands, 
And  Lorelei  bewitching  stands 
Upon  the  cliff,  and  waves  her  hands 

Above  the  shadows  of  the  Rhine. 

The  precious  hill-sides  !— every  foot 
To  fair  fertility  is  put ; 
Bright  cereal  and  fragrant  fruit 
Along  the  teeming  valley  shine, 


140  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

And  charming  pictures  are  espied 
Behind,  before,  on  either  side, 
As  through  trim  terraces  we  glide 
Around  the  windings  of  the  Rhine. 

On  Rolandseck  there  hangs  a  frown  ; 
The  Drachenfels  looks  sternly  down  ; 
Old  haunted  castle-ruins  crown 

The  woody  heights  of  Hammerstein  ; 
The  Sternberg  still  could  tell  a  tale 
Of  Conrad  and  the  Holy  Grail, 
And  Guda  sees  her  image  pale 

Within  the  mirror  of  the  Rhine  ! 

Here  Lahneck  bends  its  swarthy  brows. 
On  yonder  slope  King  Wenceslaus 
Quaffed  of  the  fatal  Asmanhaus 

And  swapped  his  heavy  crown  for  wine  ; 
Here  floats  at  anchor  on  the  stream 
A  mossy  mill  whose  slow  wheels  seem 
To  slumber  as  they  doze  and  dream 

And  softly  dip  the  drowsy  Rhine. 

The  pictures  ! — how  they  shift  and  change 
In  magic  transposition  strange  ! 
Here  shoots  aloft  a  mountain  range, 

Till  in  the  clonds  its  turrets  shine  ; 
Here  velvet  meadows  calmly  flow 
And  brooks  come  singing  soft  and  low 
Their  tinkling  treasures  to  bestow 

Upon  the  glacier-cradled  Rhine. 

Yonder  a  diva  plays  coquette 
Upon  a  ducal  parapet, 


RHINE.  141 

And  there  a  crucifix  is  set, 

And  here  a  little  wayside  shrine, 
And  here  a  king  without  a  throne, — 
Without  a  scepter  of  his  own — 
Has  built  a  prison-house  of  stone 

Above  the  ripples  of  the  Rhine. 

The  aster — day's  transcendent  star — 
Beside  the  hedge-row  shines  afar ; 
About  the  base  of  Altenaar 

Delinquent  honeysuckles  twine, 
And  many  a  common  meadow  flower — 
Child  of  the  Rhenish  sun  and  shower — 
Is  sweetly  set  as  beauty's  dower 

Along  the  valley  of  the  Rhine. 

The  blossoms  down  the  hill-side  chase 
Each  other  in  a  merry  race 
With  eager  eye  and  glowing  face  : 

Angelica  and  columbine, 
Campanula  and  lilies  rank 
Run  stooping  o'er  the  weedy  bank 
Where  erst  the  water-witches  drank, 

And  dabble  in  the  flowing  Rhine. 

The  river,  when  you're  southward  bound, 
Shows  vistas  of  enchanted  ground  ; 
The  hills,  with  ruined  castles  crowned, 

Wear  mantles  of  the  fruity  vine  ; 
Along  the  wave  trip  fairy  bands, 
And  L,orelei  bewitching  stands 
Upon  the  cliff  and  waves  her  hands 

Above  the  shadows  of  the  Rhine. 


142  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

PISA  TO  GENOA. 

From  Pisa  to  Genoa  goes  the  road 

By  cliffs  that  are  tunneled  and  gulfs  bestrode, 

Where  the  Appenines  stoop  and  the  sea-waves  play 

And  the  locomotive  is  splashed  with  spray  ; 

Out  of  the  sun  and  into  the  cave 

That  opens  its  maw  by  the  dancing  wave, 

Out  of  the  cave  and  into  the  sun, 

And  into  the  cave  till  the  day  is  done. 

Out ! — a  little  boat  nears  the  shore  ; 

A  little  girl  smiles  in  a  cottage  door  ; 

At  the  right  are  sheep  on  the  steep  asleep, 

And  off  at  the  left  the  wild  waves  leap, 

And  the  crags  have  learned  the  rackety  knack, 

"  Clackaty-clack  !  Clackaty-clack  !  " 

In  ! — I  wonder  who  'twas  afloat, 

And  why  the  maiden  was  watching  the  boat. 

A  roar  in  the  gloom  of  the  rushing  car  : 

"  Waaa  ! — aaa  ! — aaa  ! — aaaaar  !  " 

Out ! — We  are  poised  on  the  airy  track — 

"  Clackaty-clack  ! — clackaty-clack  !  " 

Above  the  savage  abyss  we're  hung, 

And  every  battlement  finds  a  tongue 

As  through  the  gorge  the  echoes  are  flung, 

Hither  and  yon  and  out  and  back — 

Hark  !  the  bark  of  a  wolfish  pack  : 

"  Clackaty-clack  .'—clackaty-clack  !  " 

Out  of  the  cave  and  into  the  sun, 

And  into  the  cave  till  the  ride  is  run. 

A  mountain-brook  from  a  high  rock  springs  ; 

A  bird  stands  still  on  fluttering  wings  ; 

A  baby  is  sleeping  beneath  a  tree, 

And  the  sun  is  white  on  a  sail  at  sea 


IN   1864.  143 

In  !— How  brave  was  the  brooklet's  leap  ; 

How  very  fair  was  the  child  asleep  ! 

How  sweet  was  the  sun  on  the  sail  afar  ! — 

"  Waaa  ! — aaa  ! — aaa  ! — aaaaar  !  " 

Out  of  the  cave,  and  into  the  sun, 

And  into  the  cave  till  the  day  is  done. 

Out ! — how  purple  the  clusters  hang  ! 

In  ! — the  bang  of  the  angry  clang  ! — 

"  Waa— aaa  !  Clackaty-clack  !  " 

Every  rock  renews  the  attack  ; 

But  a  glimpse  is  caught  of  a  castle  high, 

And  a  moldy  church  in  a  perch  near  by, 

And  groves  of  olives  that  shine  between, 

And  a  cottage  that  sits  on  a  slope  serene, 

And  a  lateen  sail  at  the  harbor-bar. 

"  Waaa  ! — aaa  ! — aaa  ! — aaaaar  !  " 

Out  of  the  glory,  into  the  gloom, 

An  arabesque  shot  on  a  granite  loom, 

Where  ever  and  ever  the  shuttle  fills 

With  warp  of  the  cloud  and  woof  of  the  hills, 

And  the  silver  thread  of  the  shining  rills. 

We  cleave  the  mountain  and  leap  the  vale  ; 

From  Pisa  to  Genoa  runs  the  rail, 

Out  of  the  sun  and  into  the  cave 

That  opens  its  maw  by  the  dancing  wave  ; 

Out  of  the  cave,  and  into  the  sun, 

And  into  the  cave  till  the  day  is  done  ! 

IN  1864. 

"  Thomas  still  moving  " — very  good  ! 
The  cause  is  clearly  understood — 
He  doesn't  like  his  neighbor  Hood. 


144  THE  PROPHKCY  AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

A  LIVING  MEMORY. 

My  absent  daughter — gentle,  gentle  maid, 

Your  life  doth  never  fade  ! 
O,  everywhere  I  see  your  blue  eyes  shine, 
And  on  my  heart,  in  healing  or  command, 
I  feel  the  pressure  of  your  small,  warm  hand 
That  slipped  at  dawn,  almost  without  a  sign, 
So  softly  out  of  mine  ! 

The  birds  all  sing  of  you,  my  darling  one  ; 

Your  day  was  just  begun, 

But  you  had  learned  to  love  all  things  that  grew  ; 
And  when  I  linger  by  the  streamlet's  side 
Where  weed  and  bush  to  you  were  glorified, 
The  violet  looks  up  as  if  it  knew 
And  talks  to  me  of  you. 

The  lily  dreams  of  you.     The  pensive  rose 

Reveals  you  where  it  glows 
In  purple  trance  above  the  waterfall  ; 
The  fragrant  fern  rejoices  by  the  pond, 
And  sets  your  dear  face  in  its  feathery  frond  ; 
The  winds  blow  chill,  but,  sounding  over  all, 
I  hear  your  sweet  voice  call ! 

My  gentle  daughter  !  With  us  you  have  stayed. 

Your  life  doth  never  fade  ! 
O,  evermore  I  see  your  blue  eyes  shine. 
In  subtle  moods  I  cannot  understand, 
I  feel  the  flutter  of  your  tender  hand 
That  slipped  at  dawn,  almost  without  a  sign, 
So  softly  out  of  mine  ! 


A  THOROUGHFARE  UNDER  THP^  OCEAN.  145 

A  WARNING. 

Our  office  door  was  open  swung 

And  in  there  strode  a  rural  feller 
Whose  jaw  was  rather  loosely  hung  ; 

He  waved  his  cotton  umbereller 
And  shouted  "  Here  !  I've  came  to  bring 

(I've  traveled  fast  and  traveled  far) 
A  poem  on  the  Vernal  Spring  " — 

'Twas  all  he  said.     There  was  a  jar. 
A  sulphurous  cloud  came  through  the  floor  ; 

A  smothered  wail  of  discontent 
Arose  ;  I  never  saw  him  more 

Or  even  knew  which  way  he  went. 
There  is  no  subterranean  vat 

In  which  to  cook  a  tiresome  feller, 
But  our  old  janitor  wears  his  hat 

And  sports  his  cotton  umbereller. 

A  THOROUGHFARE  UNDER  THE  OCEAN. 

Far  off  to  the  northward,  Fire  Island 

Sits  low,  like  a  heron  at  rest  ; 
As  the  pleasant  breeze  slips  from  the  highland 

The  white  ripples  break  at  its  breast ; 
And  inland  the  gardens,  displaying 

Their  beauty,  with  blossoms  are  rife, 
Where  rootlets  insensate  are  laying 

Their  lips  to  the  fountains  of  life. 

Our  steamer  leaps  light  through  the  water, 

Alert  as  a  bird  on  the  land  ; 
It  seems  as  though  Neptune  had  caught  her 

And  held  her  aloft  in  his  hand. 


THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS, 

And  yet,  taking  all  things  together, 

The  chances  of  losses  and  gain, 
The  icebergs,  the  wind  and  the  weather, 

My  preference  is  for  the  train. 

A  thoroughfare  under  the  sea 

Is  what  the  Parisians  propose. 
How  snug  and  secure  it  would  be, 

Away  from  the  billows  and  blows  ! 
Away  from  the  bridges  and  trestles, 

With  merely  a  rhythmical  motion — 
Away  from  the  breakers  and  vessels — 

A  thoroughfare  under  the  ocean  ! 

"  All  aboard  for  a  dive  for  New  York  !  " 

All  aboard  for  the  plunge  to  go  back  ! 
The  cars,  being  light  as  a  cork, 

Would  have  to  run  under  the  track  ; 
For  they'd  pop  to  the  top  like  a  bubble 

Attempting  a  free  locomotion, 
And  then  it  would  get  into  trouble — 

The  thoroughfare  under  the  ocean. 

What  larks  in  trolling  for  sharks  ! 

What  gales  in  bobbing  for  whales  ! 
What  ghosts  from  barnacled  barks 

Would  break  out  of  submarine  jails  ! 
What  mermaids  arisen  from  slumber 

Would  splash  the  saliferous  lotion  ! 
O,  sights  and  delights  without  number — 

The  thoroughfare  under  the  ocean  ! 

A  fleet  without  paddle  or  sail ; 

A  train  without  throttle  or  steam  ; 


THE   ARRIVAL  OF  THE   MESSIAH.  147 

Tied  to  a  leviathan's  tail 

'T would  fly  like  a  soul  in  a  dream. 
If  tourists  would  seek  for  the  treasure 

In  old  sunken  wrecks,  I've  a  notion 
'T would  prove  both  a  profit  and  pleasure, 

This  thoroughfare  under  the  ocean. 

TO  ITALY. 

Italia  !  Heritage  of  sun  and  song ! 

Through  vistas  of  the  Rhenish  Alps  I  gaze 
At  thy  mirage  above  the  Southern  haze, 

Where  languidly  the  Arno  creeps  along 

The  land  beloved  of  poets.     Still  among 
The  Tuscan  vines  the  sportive  satyr  plays  • 
As  in  the  pleasant  old  Arcadian  days 

When  Dante  wrote  and  Beatrice  was  young. 

And  yet  is  thine  a  melancholy  dower 
Of  beauty,  for  'tis  very  sad  to  see 
So  fair  a  land  so  full  of  sorrowing  ! 

How  long  shall  timid  peasants  kneel  to  power, 
And  by  anointed  robbers  plundered  be — 
The  twin  banditti  of  the  priest  and  king  ! 

THE  ARRIVAL  OF  THE  MESSIAH. 

The  pews  were  nearly  empty.     Here  and  there 
A  sombre  woman  watched  her  little  brood 
Who  hitched  about  and  thought  of  pleasant  fields  ; 
For  all  the  air  was  warm  with  summer's  breath, 
And  maple  twigs  that  touched  the  window-sill 
Were  sentient  with  the  robin's  liquid  song, 
Which  playfully  flung  up  and  tossed  about 
The  last  faint  note  the  fluttering  organ  breathed, 


148  ffHE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

Until  it  whistled  from  the  groined  arch 
To  living  arch  of, green.     A  few  lone  men 
Sought  postures  for  a  comfortable  rest 
Upon  the  velvet  cushions.     Fronting  all, 
The  spacious  carven  pulpit  lifted  high 
A  swarthy  man  whose  soft  melodious  voice 
Was  pitched  upon  a  single  quavering  note 
Monotonous  for  warning  or  reproof. 

Beneath  his  outstretched  hand  a  spotless  cloth 

Concealed  the  sanguinary  sacrifice — 

The  symbols  of  the  body  and  the  blood 

Of  Jesus,  crucified  on  Calvary. 

And  on  the  snow-white  table  sifted  down 

Through  gothic  windows  rich  with  classic  art, 

The  opulent  sunshine — red  and  blue  and  gold. 

"  Oh,  heed  the  meaning  of  this  awful  rite  !  " 

Appealed  the  finely  modulated  tones  : 

"  The  Saviour  of  the. world  was  slain  for  you  ! 

He  was  betrayed  and  nailed  upon  the  cross 

That  through  the  great  atonement  of  his  blood 

They  who  believe  might  have  eternal  life. 

Neglect  this  hour  and  you  mayhap  are  lost 

To  perish  in  the  gulf  forevennore  ! 

And  he  will  come  again  to  judge  the  world — 

How  soon,  who  knows  ?  This  year  ?  Perhaps  to-day  ! 

O,  ye  beloved  !  Heed  his  awful  voice  !  " 

The  women  moved  uneasily  ;  the  men 
Nodded  and  yawned  and  strove  to  keep  awake. 
And  still  the  preacher's  soothing  voice  went  on  : 

"  I/O  !  the  Messiah  will  return  to  earth 

On  wings  of  mercy  and  avenging  wrath 

To  judge  the  quick  and  dead.     To  bless  or  curse. 


THE  ARRIVAI,  OF  THE   MESSIAH.  149 

He  well  may  come  in  these  tumultuous  times 
When  Pestilence  walks  forth  at  noonday  ;  when 
Storms  smite  the  sea  and  simoons  fret  the  land  ; 
When  niggard  Barth  gives  forth  her  scanty  yield, 
And  Misery  dwells  in  cities  ;  when  the  hand 
Of  Industry  is  empty  and  its  voice 
Portends  the  tempest  that  shall  rock  the  world  ! 
Awake  !  ye  sinful  slumberers — awake." 

He  paused.     The  stertorous  breathing  showed  content. 

Good  Deacon  Grey  against  a  pillar  leaned 

And  drew  a  silken  kerchief  o'er  his  head 

And  publicly  reposed.     Sweet  odors  came 

From  grass  new-mown  ;  the  buzz  of  truant  bees 

Blent  with  the  murmur  of  complaining  flies 

And  filled  the  aisles  with  song,  as  softly  fell 

A  stranger's  footstep  in  the  vestibule. 

He  entered  :  stopped  :  a  man  of  middle  years 

Whom  suns  had  tanned  ;  a  flush  upon  his  cheek, 

Brown,  wavy  hair  and  yellow  beard  unkempt, 

Thin,  sympathetic  nose  and  tremulous  lip, 

And  dark,  deep  eyes,  beneath  a  brow  of  pain — 

Around  his  form  a  tattered  mantle  drawn. 

"  Awake  !  "  the  preacher  cried.     "  Ye  careless  souls, 

Beware  the  judgment  when  the  Christ  shall  come. 

Beware  the  menace  of  that  awful  hour 

When  He  shall  sternly  meet  you  face  to  face 

Dispensing  life  or  everlasting  death  ! 

And  if  He  came  to-day  and  summoned  you, 

And  stood  in  yonder  door  and  spread  his  arms 

As  on  the  hills  above  Jerusalem, 

And  cried  aloud  '  Ye  mortals,  I  am  He  ! 

How  often  have  I  called  you  to  repent ! ' 


ISO  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER   POEMS. 

How  would  you  greet  the  glorious  messenger  ? 
Would  you  salute  Him  as  the  Lord  of  Souls 
And  bow  yourselves  before  Him  in  the  dust  ? 
Or  would  you  challenge  Him,  as  Thomas  did, 
Deny  Him  in  dismay,  as  Peter  did, 
Betray  Him  to  the  law,  as  Judas  did, 
Or  jeer  and  scoff  as  did  the  godless  mob, 
If  He  should  stand  before  you  at  this  hour 
And  cry  aloud,  '  Ye  mortals  !  I  am  He  ! '  " 

The  stranger  raised  his  hands  amid  the  pause 
And  loud  exclaimed  "  Ye  mortals,  I  am  He  ! 
How  often  have  I  called  you  to  repent  ? 
I  am  the  Christ  ye  worship,  knowing  not ; 
Lo  !  I  am  come  again  to  judge  the  world  !  " 

Great  was  the  tumult,  and  the  preacher  cried 

"  Impostor  and  blasphemer, — peace  !  be  still ! 

Disturber  of  our  worship — get  you  hence  !  " 

The  deacon  snatched  the  kerchief  from  his  head, 

And  rubbing  eyes  and  muttering  "  Here  !  What's  this  ? 

The  fellow's  crazy  !  "  hastened  from  the  church, 

And  at  the  corne-  rung  a  little  bell. 

"  I  am  the  Christ !  "  the  stranger  sternly  said.   • 
'•  Must  I  be  stoned  again  and  crucified  ? 
Drink  vinegar  and  wear  a  crown  of  thorns  ? 
Wo  !  Wo  !  Ye  Pharisees  and  hypocrites 
Who  pray  and  swallow  up  the  widow's  home  ! 
Who  dance,  forgetful  of  the  fatherless  ! 
Who  feast  in  temples  while  they  starve  in  huts. 
Who  deck  the  pompous  synagogue  in  gold 
And  lift  its  braggart  steeple  to  the  sky 
And  robe  in  silks  while  millions  are  in  rags ! 
I  say  again  the  same  thing  unto  thee  : 


ARRIVAL,  OF  THE  MESSIAH.  15! 

If  thieves  shall  take  thy  coat  give  them  thy  cloak, 

Or  smite  thee  on  the  right  cheek,  turn  the  left. 

Blessed  are  they  who  have  no  earthly  goods, 

For  they  shall  prosper  in  the  life  to  come. 

I/ike  sparrows,  for  to-morrow  take  no  thought ; 

If  thou  hast  hoarded  for  a  rainy  day 

Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 

Tear  down  thy  palaces  and  follow  me  ! 

I  am  the  messenger  whom  God  hath  sent — 

His  only  Son — the  man  of  Nazareth. 

I  am  the  Word,  the  Way,  the  Truth,  the  Life  ; 

He  who  believes  on  me  can  never  die  ! 

And  he  who  doubteth  is  already  damned  ! ' ' 

"  Here — here  !  What's  this  ?  "  inquired  a  breathless  man 

With  shield  of  brass  upon  a  field  of  blue, 

"  Who's  making  this  disturbance  on  my  beat  ?  " 

He  seized  the  sad-eyed  stranger,  dragged  him  down 

And  hurried  him  away  with  the  remark 

"  It's  odd  how  many  tramps  there  is  this  year." 

The  preacher  to  the  women  huddled  round 

Sagely  observed  "  That  man  must  be  insane." 

"  Talks  just  exactly  like  it,"  one  replied. 

Next  morning  found  the  stranger  hollow-eyed 
And  haggard,  standing  in  the  prisoner's  dock. 
The  officer  arraigned  him,  saying  "Judge, 
This  anarchist  disturbed  a  Christian  church, 
And  spoke,  your  Honor,  horrid  blasphemy  ; 
He  claimed  that  he  was  Christ,  the  Son  of  God  !  " 

"  And  if  he  is,"  the  pastor  softly  said, 
"  He'd  better  work  a  miracle  right  here 
And  save  himself  from  getting  into  jail." 


152  THE   PROPHECY  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

The  stranger  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands, 
And  murmured  "  Ever,  evermore  the  same  !  " 

The  Judge  addressed  him  :  "  Vagrant — nothing  worse- 
I  sentence  you — 'twill  help  you  to  reform — 
To  twenty  days  or  twenty  dollars.     Next !  " 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL. 

Around  St.  Luke's  the  evening  air  was  murk, 
And  o'er  the  river  hung  enshrouding  fogs. 
Within,  on  weary  beds,  pale  sufferers  tossed 
And  waited  for  the  ghostly  Summoner, 
Or  o'er  the  lawn  outside  the  windows  marked 
The  laggard  Spring  put  forth  her  promises 
In  cheerful  catkins  of  the  cottonwood. 

Two  men  upon  the  darkening  couches  lay, 
Who  never  more  would  look  upon  the  sun. 

Adolphus  Potter,  known  and  honored  far 
As  rector  of  the  church  Immanuel, 
With  fever  wasted,  at  the  door  of  death, 
Uprose  in  bed,  and,  heedless  of  his  pain, 
In  trance  of  exaltation  cried  aloud. 

"  What  would'st  thou  ?  "  asked  the  priestly  visitor. 
"  Thy  life  hath  been  an  open  book  of  good. 
Thy  sins  are  all  forgiven,  and  at  the  gate 
The  saints  await  thee,  blest  to  enter  in." 

"  Almighty  Father  !  "  prayed  the  suffering  man, 

"  My  one  petition  grant  this  final  hour  ! 

O,  save  my  soul !  Let  not  my  light  go  out ! 

O,  Christ !  As  I  have  praised  thee — worshipped  thee- 

Now  intercede  that  I  may  not  be  lost 


IN  THE   HOSPITAI,.  153 

And  perish  in  the  bottomless  abyss 

Of  endless  wrath  like  them  who  know  thee  not ! 

Save  me,  O  Lord  !  Lift  up  my  shrinking  soul 

And  bear  it  to  the  realms  of  perfect  joy, 

Where  sickness  never  conies,  or  death,  or  pain, 

Or  loss,  or  fear,  or  toil  or  weariness, 

Or  anxious  thought  or  care  for  those  we  love — 

The  realms  of  peace  and  never-ending  rest ! 

O,  save  my  soul !  Lord  Jesus,  save  my  soul ! 

Let  me  enjoy  the  bliss  of  thine  abode 

Where  poverty  and  suffering  enter  not, 

And  where  unceasing  rise  the  songs  of  praise 

To  God  and  to  the  Lamb — oh  !  save  my  soul ! 

Oh,  grant  " — convulsively  he  clasped  the  hand 

That  held  his  own,  fell  calmly  back  and  died. 

In  Ward  18  lay  stretched  a  man  of  years — 

A  surfman — Benedict  Dale  of  Barnegat. 

A  wrinkled,  weather-beaten  hulk  was  his, 

All  seamed  with  time  and  toil  and  bowed  with  care. 

Surgeons  had  left  him  :  he  was  past  all  help  ; 

For  underneath  him,  from  an  ugly  gap 

Made  by  a  splintered  spar,  his  life-blood  oozed. 

"  Good  morning  !  "  spake  the  priestly  visitor. 
"  Ah  !  I  remember  you  !  A  man  of  deeds  ! 
Life-saving  Service  !  Station  down  the  coast. 
After  you  fought  the  storms  for  twenty  years 
You  have  received  a  very  grievous  wound." 

The  sick  man  turned  his  face  and  murmured  "  Yes  ! 
Ketchcd  quite  a  clip — I  got  in  th'  way  at  last ! 
Shan't  weather  it.     I  guess  I'm  goin'  to  die  !  " 

"  We  all  must  die  "  replied  the  clergyman, 

"  But,  brother — have  you  made  your  peace  with  Heaven  ?  " 


154  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

"  Not  specially,"  said  Benedict. 

"  But  your  soul," 
Pursued  the  visitor — "  I  trust  'tis  safe." 

*  Well,  now,"  the  sick  man  whispered,  "  I  declare 
I  scurcely  ever  thought  about  it  once  ! 
My  soul  ?  I  doubt  ef  'tis.     So  much  to  do, 
It  had  to  wait  fer  more  important  things." 

"  It  had  to  wait  ?  Your  soul  ?  O,  careless  man  !  " 
Exclaimed  the  shocked  and  anxious  visitor  ; 
"  Your  soul !  Your  soul !  It  is  the  only  thing 
That  hath  importance  in  this  fleeting  life  !  "• 

"  It  had  to  wait,"  persisted  Surf  man  Dale  ; 

"  So  many  folks  in  trouble  all  the  while, 

So  many  ships  with  signals  of  distress — 

So  many  fiery  torches  on  the  beach — 

So  many  boats  thet  founder  in  the  waves — 

Why,  scurce  a  week  that  some  fool  cap'u  don't 

Wreck  a  whole  ship-load  on  the  Jersey  coast. 

Whenever  I  got  thinkin'  'bout  my  soul 

Some  one  in  trouble  took  my  'tention  off. 

I  don't  know  whether  'twill  be  saved  er  not." 

"  Unhappy  friend  !  "  the  minister  rejoined  ; 
"  Your  state  alarms  me  !  Nothing  in  this  world 
Requires  attention  like  your  sinsick  soul. 
O,  plead  in  prayer  that  it  may  perish  not  !  " 

"  Parson."  the  surf  man  answered,  "  do  you  know, 

A-savin'  others'  bodies  I  have  had 

A  heap  more  pleasure — cur'ous  as  it  seems — 

Thau  dwellin'  on  the  savin'  of  my  soul. 

Lately  I've  thought — I  wonder  ef  it's  sin — 


IN  THE  HOSPITAI,.  155 

That  my  old  soul  ain't  wuth  much  worriment, 
Although  I'm  shoalin'  right  in  sight  o'  shore  !  " 

"  Have  you  no  terror  ?  Fear  you  not  to  die  ? 
Remember — 'tis  an  awful  thing  to  fall 
Into  the  hands  of  an  Almighty  God  !  " 

"  I  shouldn't  suppose  'twould  be,"  the  surf  man  said. 
"  What  of  the  future  ?  "  asked  the  clergyman. 

"  I've  thought  o'  that,"  the  sick  man  faintly  sighed. 

"  If  there's  another  world,  as  you  folks  says — 

But  then,  I  reckon  you  don't  reelly  know, — 

I'd  joy  to  cruise  there,  for  I  tell  you  what, 

I'd  like  a  chance  to  rally  now  and  then 

At  sound  of  bell  or  cannon  helpin'  folks 

In  peril  or  in  pain,  that  needs  a  hand." 

"  There  are  no  such,  my  friend  ;  all  Heaven  is  joy — 
There  is  no  pain,  and  none  in  need  of  help." 

"  None  f  Then  I  couldn't  labor  at  my  trade. 

I'd  rather  stay  on  earth,  a  thousand  times, 

Or  die  forever  when  I  die  to-day, 

Than  dwell  in  joy  while  there  is  misery  here, 

Or  anybody  suffers  anywhere. 

Why,  I  would  jest  as  soon  be  petrified. 

Among  the  lost,  perhaps,  I'd  have  a  chance." 

He  paused.     His  breath  almost  deserted  him  ; 

His  pulse  was  but  a  feebly  fluttering  thread, 

But  he  went  on,  "  As  I  was  sayin'  Cap — 

And  if  there  is  no  Heaven — perhaps  there  ain't, — 

I'd  like  to  hev  my  comrades  bury  me 

Beside  some  common  path,  and  in  my  name 

Plant  vines  and  cultivate  'em  till  they  bear 


156  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Bushels  of  grapes  a  year  and  free  to  all  ! 
And  tell  my  son,  when  back  he  comes  from  sea, 
Tell  Ben  I  charge  him  with  my  latest  breath 
To  take  my  vacant  place  where  breakers  yell, 
And  ships  are  flung  ashore  at  Barnegat, 
And  spend  his  years  in  savin*  castaways, 
And  risk  his  life  that  other  men  may  live. 
What  for  ?  To  get  the  greatest  happiness  : — 
Nothin'  I  ever  tried  pays  half  so  well. 
However  willin',  few  accomplish  much. 
I  never  saved  a  half  as  many  lives 
As  Surfman  Hardy,  who — " 

A  silence  fell. 

The  white  lips  trembling,  spake  no  more  ;  the  eyes 
Filled  with  the  mists  of  ocean.     He  was  dead. 

IMMORTALITY. 

Man  is  immortal.     What  the  schoolmen  taught, 
What  monks  proclaim  and  ministers  declare, 
That  when  the  eyes  are  dim  and  heart  is  still 
The  mind,  a  long-imprisoned,  homesick  bird, 
Breaks  from  its  convoluted  cage  and  soars 
To  some  fair  clime  of  fountains,  flowers  and  rest- 
Some  realm  of  endless  love  and  peace  and  joy — 
Is  what  no  man  can  know.     And  still  the  monks 
Make  merchandise  of  dreams,  and  pulpiteers 
Still  sell  their  guesses  in  the  market-place, 
And  sorrowing  women  hurry  with  their  coin 
To  buy  the  precious  stores  of  rhapsody. 

And  yet  is  man  immortal.     So  declare 

The  holy  gnostics  of  this  later  day 

Who  zealously  explore  the  cosmic  realm  : 


IMMORTALITY.  157 

The  sacred  prophets  of  the  crucible  ; 
The  priests  who  bow  before  the  microscope  ; 
The  seers  who  baffle  the  Plutonian  sphinx, 
And  read  aright  the  riddle  of  the  rocks 
And  eons  count  in  Terra's  wrinkled  skin  ; 
The  undismayed  apostles  of  the  sky 
Who  analyze  the  sun's  euibraided  beam 
And  weigh  the  light  from  flaming  Regulus  ; 
The  patient  martyrs  with  the  scholar's  torch 
Who  humbly  worship  at  the  shrine  of  Truth. 
All  these  agree  man  wears  upon  his  brow 
The  triple  crown  of  immortality. 

Eternal  matter  in  perpetual  flight ! 

The  molecules  that  mould  this  throbbing  heart, 

Ere  passed  to  me  for  transitory  use, 

Have  filled  the  warp  and  woof  of  many  a  loom 

Sped  by  a  ceaseless  shuttle.     They  have  danced 

And  sparkled  down  the  foamy  cataract ; 

Have  glowed  in  yellow  cowslip  of  the  vale, 

And  clung  with  edelweiss  to  Jungfrau's  cliff  ; 

Have  hid  in  sunless  caverns  of  the  earth 

Where  granite  swims  upon  a  molten  sea  ; 

Have  lurked  beneath  the  reptile's  poison-fang, 

And  given  voice  to  red-winged  thunderbolt, 

And  tinged  with  fluttering  rose  a  maiden's  lip, 

And  blazed  in  furnaces  of  far-off  suns, 

And  floated  on  the  tenuous  nebula 

The  cradle  of  a  callow  universe  ! 

And  when  my  quivering  pulses  cease  to  throb 

The  tireless  atoms  of  this  changeling  heart 

Shall  still  dance  down  the  vistas  of  the  world 

And  fill  all  measures  of  material  life  : 

Shall  seek  Cimmerian  depths  of  nether  seas  ; 


158  THE  PROPHECY  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Shall  tip  with  gold  the  lily's  crystal  cup  ; 

Shall  sleep  in  dormant  clod,  awake  in  dew 

And  carol  in  the  thrush's  cheery  song  ; 

vShall  climb  in  succulent  sap  the  vernal  vine 

And  feed,  through  fluttering  leaves,  the  hungry  air, 

And  take  siesta  on  the  violet  cloud, 

And  visit  all  the  macrocosm  of  worlds. 

I  am  Immortal ! 

The  transmutations  of  the  fluent  earth 

Proclaim  me  indestructible — a  part 

Of  all  that  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  be  ! 

Immortal  Influence  !  Whatsoe'er  we  touch 

Receives  an  impulse  that  can  never  die. 

As  apple  tossed  but  lightly  from  the  hand, 

Lifts  up  the  Earth  to  meet  it  as  it  falls — 

As  each  small  drop  we  add  to  Ocean's  cup 

Sculptures  the  head-land  of  remotest  shores — 

As  step  of  urchin  shakes  the  planet's  bulk 

And  makes  its  orbit  flutter — as  a  word 

Breathed  on  the  palpitant  air  takes  flight  in  waves 

That  speed  the  simoon  on  Formosan  seas, 

So  largest  feels  the  tangenc}r  of  least 

Where  man  doth  meet  and  greet  his  fellow  man. 

Ere  man  a  biped  stood,  a  crimson  rose 

In  sudden  whirl  of  zones  was  rudely  plucked 

And,  thrust  in  icy  cell,  was  floated  far 

Through  crystal  centuries,  till  flung  ashore 

On  Albion's  isle,  a  strange  and  radiant  bloom, 

Since  tuneful  Tennyson  touched  his  latest  chord. 

Thus  man,  enshrined  in  law,  goes  drifting  out — 

A  waif  on  fluctuant  tides  of  stormy  seas. 

None  liveth  to  himself.     The  band  of  fate, 

The  spotless  baldric  of  the  Sisters  Three, 


IMMORTALITY.  159 

Girds  us  around  with  stringent  thews  of  force. 

Heredity  unnerves  Volition's  arm, 

And  on  the  anvil  where  we  helpless  cry, 

The  clanging  hammer  of  environment 

Gives  shape  fantastic.     Others  fashion  us 

And  we,  in  turn,  mould  others'  lives  for  them. 

Bach  act  becomes  creative  ;  every  word 

Like  sculptor's  burin  upon  plastic  clay. 

As  some  bright  star  extinguished  ages  since 

And  hurled,  a  darkling  ember,  down  the  void. 

Still  sheds  its  lucent  beam  on  mortal  gaze, 

So  we  the  last  catastrophe  survive 

And  shine  along  the  dear  familiar  paths. 

We  are  immortal ! 

Our  influence,  great  or  small  or  good  or  ill, 

Will  live  forever,  ineffaceable, 

And  on  the  future's  sky  our  shadow  fall 

Like  spectre  on  the  Brocken's  sunset  mist. 

Immortal  Thought !  Although  the  alluring  dream 
That  Consciousness  can  leap  the  Stygian  gulf 
Should  prove  a  foolish  figment  of  the  brain 
Wherewith  we  love  to  flatter  vanity, 
Imperial  Thought  shall  grant  a  lease  eterne. 
Life's  rosy  gates  stand  open  to  the  past ; 
For  who  recalls  the  hour  or  day  of  birth  ? 
Or  week  or  month  or  year  ?  None  woman-born  ! 
The  thought  runs  back  beyond  the  memory. 
We  lived  but  have  forgot.     We  saw  and  heard, 
But  lo  !  the  precious  garnered  store  was  lost, 
Spilt  through  Mnemosyne's  unfinished  sieve. 
Yet  sometimes  now  flit  half-remembered  things 
And  twitter  at  the  windows  of  our  hearts, 
And  plead  for  recognition  ;  Reverie 


l6o  THE   PROPHECY   AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

Reminds  us  that  we  knew  them  in  the  days 

When  Earth  was  young,  ere  Juno  loved  and  wed 

Or  tuneful  Metnnon  sang  to  listening  Dawn. 

Man  is  immortal ! 

For,  leaping  Recollection's  utmost  pale, 

The  endless  centuries  of  the  sun  are  ours 

And  we  are  linked  to  past  eternities. 

The  Present ! — fount  of  immortality  ! 

Our  far-off  sires  who  fought  with  ravenous  beasts 

And  dressed  in  skins  and  dwelt  in  huts  of  clay, 

Embittered  with  their  famished,  wretched  lives, 

Were  wont  to  visit  Fancy's  radiant  realm, — 

The  Golden  Age  when  life  was  always  joy, 

When  men  were  always  wise  and  women  good, 

And  Earth  was  crowned  with  happiness  supreme  ; 

Or  else,  perchance,  they  dreamt  of  Paradise, 

And  reveled  in  a  future  glorified, 

Where  joyous  souls,  discumbered  of  their  flesh, 

In  gorgeous  palaces  of  precious  stone 

Should  feast  at  bounteous  tables  of  the  gods, 

With  seraphim  to  set  the  viands  on. 

Now  ravenous  beast  is  slain,  hut  grown  to  house, 

And  famine  desolates  the  earth  no  more. 

We  win  immortal  victory  over  Pain  ; 

We  harness  Satan  to  our  flying  car ; 

We  bridle  the  rebellious  thunderbolt, 

Enslave  all  Nature's  insubordinate  powers, 

Give  holiday  to  Labor,  hope  to  Fear, 

And  flaming  apotheosis  to  man. 

We  push  our  small  horizon  till  it  clasps 

The  vast  periphery  of  the  universe. 

We  lift  our  shallow  sky  till  it  contains  . 

All  thrones  of  all  the  gods  that  men  have  made. 


IMMORTALITY. 

We  build  our  Eden  here  ;  we  sip  its  springs  ; 
Its  tree  of  knowledge  taste  and  find  it  good. 
We  dwell  in  stately  temples  made  with  hands 
And  walk  the  fields  Elysian  and  rejoice. 
We  ride  the  fiery  chariot  of  the  stars, 
And  drink  the  dulcet  ichor  of  the  gods. 

O,  halcyon  Future  !  None  can  taste  of  death. 

Where  we  are  loitering  life  alone  can  dwell. 

We  hold  to-morrow  in  perpetual  fee  : 

We  warm  ourselves  beneath  to-morrow's  sun  ; 

We  taste  to-morrow's  motley  sweets,  we  drink 

To-morrow's  nectar,  pluck  to-morrow's  flowers, 

And  thrill  beneath  to-morrow's  passion-gust. 

Ah,  Plato,  true  !  Where  we  are  death  is  not. 

Man  is  immortal ! 

The  latest  thought  of  my  exhausted  brain 

Shall  toward  the  portals  of  to-morrow  turn 

To  watch  the  pageant  of  the  unborn  years. 

And  when  fatigued  with  watching  till  I  sleep, 

And  dreams  are  crowned  with  endless  trance  of  rest, 

When  that  supreme  cerebral  function,  mind, 

(Puissant  force  short-circuited  by  Time) 

Shall  cease  to  send  out  signals  to  the  sense — 

The  tireless  atoms  of  this  changeling  heart 

Shall  still  dance  down  the  vistas  of  the  world. 

For  some  unswaddled  babe,  Prometheus 

Shall  spin  anew  these  vital  filaments 

And  weave  a  mantle  of  exuberant  life. 

Thus  to  each  noble  dauphin  Science  brings 
The  triple  crown  of  immortality  : 
The  endless  whirl  of  sentient  molecules  ; 
The  endless  metamorphoses  of  touch  ; 
TMe  ervlless  ranges  of  imperial  Thought. 


162  THE   PROPHECY  AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

So  when  the  eyes  are  dim  and  pulses  still, 
And  change  hath  followed  change  in  Protean  whirl, 
When  luminous  skies,  enlarged  and  lifted  up, 
.    Resplendent  turn  to  every  source  of  light, 
When  sweeter  fountains  cheer  the  arid  plain 
And  fairer  fruits  bedeck  the  tree  of  life, 
My  soul  shall  sleep  within  the  gates  of  Peace, 
And  Silence,  angel  on  the  sentry  tower, 
Shall  signal  to  the  weary,  "  All  is  well !  " 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1,  page  1. 

This  poem  was  written  at  the  invitation  of  Hon.  Thomas  W.  Palmer,  President  of 
the  Columbian  Exposition,  and  his  Committee  on  Program,  and  was  effectively  rjad 
at  the  inauguration  of  the  fair  on  May  1, 1893,  by  Jessie  Couthoui,  elocutionist,  of 
Chicago. 

NOTE  2,  page  9. 

There  is  nowhere  a  more  charming  hot-weather  retreat  than  the  Thousand 
Islands— those  bits  of  greenness  in  the  upper  St.  Lawrence  where  one  finds  beauty, 
approaching  through  spaciousness  to  something  of  grandeur,  a  quiet  serenity,  a  per- 
fect restfulness,  a  coolness  day  and  night,  even  in  midsummer,  and  countless  charms 
which  art  has  lavished  in  transforming  the  wild  home  of  the  Hurons.  There  are 
1,692  islands,  it  is  said,  and  they  range  in  size  from  the  dimensions  of  a  dinner-table 
to  a  solid  park  containing  ten  or  fifteen  square  miles.  But  it  is  one  of  the  laws  of 
the  locality  that  nothing  shall  be  counted  as  an  island  which  does  not  bear  a  tree. 


NOTE  3,  page  15. 

Written  at  a  breakfast-table  at  the  request  of  a  lady  who  partook  of  her  two  favorite 
dishes  and  wished  them  to  be  associated  in  verse. 


NOTE  4,  page  24. 

It  has  long  seemed  to  me  that  a  theory  was  needed  which  would  explain  the  high 
tides  in  the  Bay  of  Fundy  and  the  Basin  of  Minas,  and  at  the  same  time  account  for 
the  mineral  richness  of  their  shores.  Rare  collections  are  made  there  and  several 
minerals  are  found  which  are  not  known  elsewhere  in  the  world.  They  reveal  an 
abundance  of  amethyst,  agate,  opal,  calcite,  apophylite,  chalcedony,  cat's-eye^ 
jasper,  stilbite,  heulandite,  magnetite,  malachite,  copper,  obsidian,  and  quartz 
crystals  of  unusual  coloring. 

NOTE  5,  page  30. 

A  religious  contest  was  carried  on  from  1870  to  1880  over  the  body  of  Joseph  Gui- 
bord,  of  Montreal,  to  which  burial  with  his  relatives  was  prohibited  on  account  of  the 
heretical  opinions  which  he  was  alleged  to  have  entertained.  His  body  was  repeatedly 
dug  up,  transferred  and  stolen,  and  finally,  it  was  said,  his  much  harried  bones  were 
deliberately  destroyed. 

NOTE  6,  page  31. 

No  explanation  can  here  be  added  that  would  make  this  bit  of  pleasantry  very  in- 
telligible to  readers  unacquainted  with  the  institution  referred  to:  those  who  have 
visited  it  do  not  need  any  explanation. 


164  NOTES. 

NOTE  7,  page  33. 

This  celebrates  an  actual  occurrence.  Mr.  Folger,  President  Arthur's  Secretary  of 
the  Treasury,  refused  to  commission  Mary  Miller  as  captain  of  a  steamboat  on  the 
Missouri,  though  she  had  been  serving  in  that  capacity  for  months,  during  which 
time  her  husband,  the  owner  of  the  craft,  lay  disabled  in  the  cabin. 


NOTE  8,  page  35. 

It  was  my  privilege  to  be  of  some  service  to  General  Fremont,  in  obtaining  a 
publisher  for  his  Memoirs.  One  day  I  expressed  to  Mrs.  Fremont  surprise  that 
the  Pathfinder's  romantic  achievements  had  not  inspired  American  poets  to  write 
something  worth  while ;  whereupon  she  suddenly  exclaimed :  "  Go  and  write  it,  sir !  " 
It  was  playfully  spoken  and  heard ;  but  I  cannot  forbear  reiterating  my  surprise, 
which  has  in  no  wise  diminished.  His  personal  career  was  an  epic. 


NOTE  9,  page  36. 

"  I  was  named  after  my  father,"  said  Secretary  Lamar  to  me  once  in  response  to  a 
question.  "  His  mother's  queer  brother  claimed  the  naming  of  the  children,  so  he 
named  my  uncle  Mirabeau  Bonaparte  and  my  father  Lucius  Quintus  Curtius.  For 
some  reason,  probably  an  agricultural  one,  the  '  Curtius '  was  changed  to  '  Cincin- 
natus.'  I  inherited  the  classic  names.  Well,  it  is  all  right,  for  they  might  have  been 
Julius  Caesar  Brutus  Hannibal ! "  Judge  Larnar's  uncle  Mirabeau  became  President 
of  Texas. 

NOTE  10,  page  36. 

On  Mr.  Weed's  eighty-fifth  birthday  I  sent  him  this  sonnet,  with  the  explanatory 
word  "  Priam,  you  remember,  was  father  of  a  hundred  children— a  fit  type  of  your 
relation  to  the  press  of  New  York  State." 


NOTE  11,  page  37. 

This  sonnet,  translated  from  the  Spanish,  but  inadequately  reflects  tho  veneration 
in  which  Bonito  Juarez  is  held  in  Mexico  as  "  the  Second  Savior  " — the  revolutionary 
native  chief,  Hidalgo,  of  course,  being  the  first. 


NOTE  12,  page  38. 

Thomas  Simms,  a  slave,  escaped  from  his  owner  at  Savannah,  Georgia,  in  1851 , 
and  made  his  way  to  Boston  on  a  brig,  concealing  himself  till  near  his  journey's  end. 
He  was  then  locked  into  the  cabin,  but  escaped  ;  was  recaptured,  but  escaped  again  ; 
and  on  lauding  in  Boston  was  arrested  and  imprisoned  in  the  Court-House,  the 
building  being  surrounded  with  chains  and  a  cordon  of  police.  Indignation  meet- 
ings were  held  and  abolitionists  were  arrested.  After  much  public  excitement  and 
several  street  fights,  he  was  adjudged  to  his  owner  on  April  11.  At  Savannah  he  was 
handcuffed  and  whipped,  and  after  several  years  of  toil  and  suffering  was  sold  to  a 
Vicksburg  bricklayer,  from  whom  he  escaped  to  Grant's  victorious  army  in  1863. 
He  was  received  with  enthusiasm  by  the  Union  soldiers. 


NOTES.  165 

NOTE  13,  page  40. 

This  summary  of  the  current  news  of  the  year  1886  is  preserved  here  merely  aa  an 
effort  in  rhyming. 

NOTE  14,  page  42. 

To  make  this  intelligible  it  should  be  explained  that  the  impressive  statue  in 
New  York  harbor,  after  it  had  been  amid  much  public  acclaim  set  upon  its  pedestal, 
was  kept  for  many  months  unlighted  through  neglect  or  indifference  on  the  part  oJ 
the  City  Council.  The  lamp  did  not  burn  baca use  there  was  "•  nothing  in  it."  At 
last  the  statue  was  made  technically  a  light-house  by  act  of  Congress,  and  has  since 
been  kept  at  a  cost  of  $10.000  a  year  to  the  Federal  Treasury.  It  is  usually  called 
"  Liberty  Enlightening  the  World,"  but  by  Bartholdi,  who  devised  and  made  it,  and  by 
hiscouitrymen  who  presented  it,  it  was  more  prop3rly  named  "  Liberty  Lighting 
the  World." 

NOTE  15,  page  46. 

The  Indian  name  of  Lake  Champlain  was  Petonbouque,  and  Goorayuntoe  (now 
North  Hero  Island)  was  "  the  gateway  "  by  which  the  Hurons  and  the  Mohawks  ap- 
proached each  other.  "  Ticonderoga  "  is  a  modern  corruption  of  "  Che-on-der-o-ga," 
meaning  the-place-of-music,  in  allusion  to  the  tinkling  sounds  of  ths  ad.jacp.nt  river. 
Mohawk  Rock,  in  Burlington  harbor,  was  the  boundary  between  the  traditional  foes. 
Pelot's  Bay  is  a  beautiful  cove  on  the  west  side  of  North  Hero,  deep  enough  to 
shelter  large  yachts,  and  on  "a  slender  tongue  of  sea-grass"  at  its  mouth  Mr. 
Timothy  J.  Sullivan  and  his  friends,  of  Albany,  have  ranged  their  attractive  and 
comfortable  summer  cottages. 

NOTE  16,  page  51. 

Otsego  Lake,  New  York,  called  by  Cooper's  Leatherstouking  "  the  Glimmerglass," 
is  the  center  of  the  forest  realm  which  the  great  novelist  populated  with  the  creatures 
of  his  fancy. 

NOTE  17,  page  53. 

Campobello  is  a  beautiful  island,  in  Passamaquoddy  Bay,  off  the  most  easterly  point 
of  the  United  States,  and  in  the  shallow  water  of  its  cool  shores  stands  one  of  nature's 
tall  monoliths— a  statue  of  rock  some  fifty  feet  high  with  a  huge  knob  at  its  top. 
It  has  a  fanciful  resemblance  to  a  human  being  walking  on  the  baach  and  is  a  con- 
spicuous landmark  to  skippers  on  the  Bay  of  Fuudy.  Far  and  wide  it  is  known 
as  "  the  Friar  of  Campobello." 

NOTE  18,  page  57. 

Cape  Despair  is  a  dangerous  and  dreaded  headland  projected  into  the  Gulf  of  St. 
Lawrence.  Off  this  point  perished  the  British  fleet  at  the  beginning  of  the  last 
century,  and  among  the  natives  stories  are  still  current  of  the  ghostly  survivors  o' 
the  fleet  and  the  occasional  reappearance  of  its  cruel  admiral. 


166  NOTES. 

NOTE  19,  page  63. 

Mount  Hope,  on  Bristol  peninsula,  the  highest  headland  in  Rhode  Island,  was  the 
ancient  seat  of  Metacomet — "King  Philip"— the  indomitable  chief  of  the  Wampa- 
noags  and  Sachem  of  Pokanoket.  When,  after  a  long  and  bloody  war,  he  was  con- 
quered and  killed  at  the  head  of  his  tribe,  his  wife — Queen  Wootonekanusky— was 
dragged  from  her  home  on  Mount  Hope  to  Plymouth  Bay,  and  sold  into  slavery  in 
the  Barbadoes. 

NOTE  20,  page  70. 

"  Lovers'  Leap,  a  high  cliff  in  Derby,  overlooking  the  confluence  cf  the  Hoosatonic 
and  Naugatuck  rivers,  and  covered  with  great  oaks  and  evergreens,  was  a  favorite 
rendezvous  of  friendly  tribes  and  is  still  the  scene  of  much  romantic  legend." — 
Sketches  of  Connecticut. 

NOTE  21,  page  74. 

Written  on  the  arrival  of  the  French  steamer,  Isere,  with  the  colossal  statue  of 
"Freedom  Lighting  the  World," — the  Xew  York  World  having  secured  the  erection 
of  the  pedestal. 

NOTE  22,  page  77. 

This  song,  set  to  "  Lauriger  Horatius,"  was  written  to  celebrate  a  memorable 
cruise  up  the  coast  of  New  England  on  the  beautiful  yacht  Falcon,  in  the  summer  of 
1884,  with  Mr.  llufus  T.  Bush,  the  owner,  and  his  family.  (See,  also,  "  A  Salt  Sea 
Specter,"  page  94,  "  The  Secret  of  the  Tides,"  "  The  Story  of  Cape  Despair,"  etc.) 


NOTE  23,  page  81. 

"  Perhaps,"  a  serious  fancy  suggested  by  the  death  of  a  bright  little  boy,  the  child 
of  a  friend  and  neighbor,  John  Habberton,  may  be  said  to  be  the  reflection  of  an 
earlier  mood ;  if  written  later,  its  title  might  have  been  "Probably  Not."  Several 
earlier  poems  on  death  have  been  omitted  from  this  book  because  the  feelings  and 
opinions  in  which  they  originated  are  no  longer  entertained  by  me. 


NOTE  24,  page  88. 

This  playful  Yankee  salutation  was  suggested  by  the  visit  of  that  enlightened 
monarch,  Dom  Pedro,  to  our  shores,  in  1876. 


NOTE  25,  page  102. 

In  explanation  of  these  verses  it  is  necessary  to  give  place  here  to  the  war-cry  of 
Bishop  A.  Cleveland  Coxe,  to  which  they  were  intended  as  an  answer.  This  is,  as  will 
be  seen,  a  theological  appeal  of  Christianity  against  Mohammedanism,  along  sec- 
tarian lines : 


NOTES.  167 


Trump  of  the  Lord  !    I  hear  it  blow  I 
Forward  the  Cross ;  the  world  shall  know 
Jehovah's  arm's  against  the  foe ; 
Down  shall  the  cursed  Crescent  go ! 
To  arms !    To  arms ! 
God  wills  it  so! 

God  help  the  lluss  !    God  bless  the  Czar ! 
Shame  on  the  swords  that  trade  can  mar! 
Shame  on  the  laggards,  faint  and  far, 
That  rise  not  to  the  holy  war  ! 
To  arms !    To  arms ! 
The  Cross  our  Star. 

How  long,  O  Lord !    for  Thou  art  just ; 
Vengeance  is  Thine ;  in  Thee  we  tru^t ; 
Wake !  arm  of  God !  and  dash  to  dust 
Those  hordes  of  rapine  and  of  lust. 
To  arms !    To  arms  ! 

Wake,  swords  that  rust ! 

Forward  the  Cross !    Break,  clouds  of  ire ! 
Break  with  the  thunder  and  the  fire  ! 
To  new  Crusades  let  Faith  inspire  ; 
Down  with  the  Crescent  to  the  mire! 
To  arms !    To  arms  ! 
To  vengeance  dire  I 

To  high  Stamb.iul  that  Cross  restore  ! 
Glitter  its  glories  as  of  yore. 
Down  with  the  Turk  !    From  Europe's  shore 
Drive  back  the  Payuim,  drunk  with  gore. 
To  arms — to  arms — 
To  arms  once  more  ! 


In  this  connection  it  may  be  proper  to  publish  the  following  letter  which  I  received 
from  the  beloved  poet  of  peace : 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  Thanks  for  thy  spirited  and  Christian  verses  in  reply  to  the 
war-inciting  bishop.  Thy  lines  are  timely.  I  wish  our  literature  was  less  eulogistic 
of  bloodshed.  Well  would  it  be  i£  our  poets  sang  only  the  bloodless  victories  of  love 
and  good- will.  I  remember  a  passage  in  Ossiau : 

"  The  battle  ceased  along  the  plain, 

For  the  bards  had  sting  the  song  of  peace." 

Truly  thy  friend, 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

NOTE  26,  page  122. 

I  never  was  satisfied  with  Whittier's  poem  "  St.  John,"  for  it  seemed  inadequate  to 
cover  the  historical  facts  in  the  case.  So,  after  assembling  and  correlating  these, 
visiting  the  old  fort  at  the  old  city  and  listening  to  the  surviving  traditions,  and 
introducing  our  weak  human  nature  as  an  element,  I  have  hung  them  in  the 
rhythmical  frame  to  which  this  note  refers. 


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